Once more into the fire (SPN/Constantine, Teen, Gen)
Title: Once more into the fire
Author: starrylizard
Fandom: Supernatural/Constantine crossover
Characters: Sam Winchester, John Constantine
Rating: Teen, Gen, Future!fic (for both fandoms)
Summary: Sam is determined to get his brother out of hell.
Notes: Takes place sometime after the S2 finale for Supernatural and after the movie. Constantine (2005) is a movie starring Keanu Reeves as John Constantine, a down and out demon hunter living in LA. My beta, rinkle, hasn’t seen Constantine and she seemed to still be able to follow the story. All comments, including constructive criticism, welcomed. Also for prompt #12 Hell on my Paranormal25 Table.
Los Angeles. The City of Angels; possibly a misnomer, or perhaps a private joke, for here there had always been the highest concentration of demonic possessions in America. It wasn’t the case now, not since the Hell Gate was opened. Now there were plenty of demons to go around, but this was still where you came if you wanted to find a specialist. Sam needed a specialist.
The rumbling purr of the Impala seemed to blend in with this part of the city, with its darkened streets and flickering, half-lit neon signs. Sam pulled over on sighting the apartment block his source had indicated. Old and worn, it looked about ready to be condemned; then again, he’d certainly stayed, squatted even, in far worse places. Across the way stood an ancient-looking bowling alley, obviously no longer in use. He scrubbed a hand over his face, idly scratching at the stubble he’d yet to trim, before sniff-testing his shirt and contemplating if he had a cleaner one stashed somewhere in the back. Now that he was here, Sam suddenly felt as tired and worn as the buildings around him - reluctant to go in.
Sam rested his forehead on the steering wheel, running an appreciative hand along the dashboard. It was calming, grounding - reminding him of his purpose. With a deep breath, he turned off the engine and stepped from the car, noting the exaggerated creak of the doors as he did. Dean would have fixed that by now. Sam filed it away for later.
The entranceway, including the wooden door, was heavily etched with symbols and ancient writing. Wards and protection runes; some Sam recognised, others that he’d like to study one day. Drawing his eyes back to the door, Sam banged a fist against it and waited. A moment later, a few choice swear words from inside let him know he’d been heard, before the door was roughly pulled open.
“What?” The man looked expectantly at Sam, his hand gripped on the door edge as if ready to slam it in Sam’s face. He was shorter than Sam, about Dean’s height, short dark hair and a shirt and tie that made him look like he’d come from a long day at the office rather than a day of exorcisms or demon hunting.
“John Constantine?”
“Depends who’s asking?”
“My name is Sam, Sam Winchester. I came to ask for your help.”
“I’m not really in a helpful mood today.” The man’s demeanour didn’t change, if anything he looked even more ready to slam the door.
“It’s about my brother. If I could just explain?” Sam kept his shoulders squared and, despite the politely chosen words, let some of his annoyance seep into his own expression - a little of his desperation too. “Please.”
“Winchester. I’ve heard of you. Met your father once.” The man, John Constantine, stepped away from the door and sluggishly moved toward a table and a half-finished bottle of Jack.
Sam, taking it as the best invitation he was going to get, let himself in. The room he found himself in served as a kitchen; green-edged yellow painted walls and moth-eaten blinds accompanied by ancient-looking kitchen appliances and the table he’d already noted. Sam ran his fingers across a windowsill, feeling grains of salt roll rough beneath his fingertips.
“My brother’s in hell.”
“So are a lot of people. Let’s get to the part where I care.” John poured himself another drink and sat down, staring at the amber liquid as it sloshed around the glass.
“You got out. And I’m told you can cross into hell and back.” Sam stood looking out the small window, down to the street below and Dean’s car. His car, now. Sam found his hands were sweating. He wiped them on his jeans before turning back to face Constantine. “I need you to find my brother.”
“Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that Hell’s less than a nice place, and I’m sorry your brother’s there, but you’re wasting my time. Once you’re in hell, there’s no getting out, no special passes for playing nice; he’s there for eternity.” John, though clearly irritated, did seem genuinely sorry for Sam. He sat back in a loose-limbed, alcohol-induced sprawl, with an expression that clearly said ‘let it go.’
“Could you just get a message to him?”
“No.”
“Then teach me. I’ll do it myself.” Sam clenched his hands into fists held tightly at his side, breathing uneven.
“If you think you can just walk into hell and grab your brother, then you’re insane. Even if it was possible for you to cross between planes, and I highly doubt you can, you really don’t want to do that. It’s not a good holiday destination.”
“I still need to try.” Sam’s voice cracked slightly, his eyes dropping back to the window, focus drifting again to the car below. “I need to try. It’s my fault he’s there.”
John stood, a little unsteady, but not yet fall down drunk by any means, and fetched a second glass from a cabinet. He sat back down heavily and waved a hand to Sam to sit. Sam continued to stand where he was, but nodded an acknowledgement of the offer.
“I heard tales about you. Some said you were a psychic; some that you were the Antichrist himself come to destroy us. You’re clearly not possessed, so I’m going to assume the latter isn’t true. Are you some sort of psychic?”
“That all stopped. We killed the yellow-eyed demon and it stopped.” Sam talked to the window still, but turned back as John began to chuckle deep in his throat. “What?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that demons lie?”
“Of course they lie, but they’ll tell the truth too, if it’ll hurt you. Gonna let me in on the joke?”
“Demon blood doesn’t a psychic make.”
Sam felt like someone had punched him in the gut. It took him a moment to reply and when he did, he found his voice shook slightly.
“How could you know about that?”
“So it’s true then. Yellow-eyes had you all fooled.”
“What do you mean?” Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion and finally sat down, before reaching for the glass that John had filled generously for him. He tipped his head back to drink it down in one gulp, grimacing as it burnt a comforting trail down to his stomach.
“You’re born psychic. Some can ignore it, others think they’re crazy, but you’re born able to see them and with that ability you attract them - demons, angels; you attract them like a moth to a flame, flies to shit. You can sense them, so they can sense you.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. He’d always seen the real evil in the things they hunted, been able to stay his hand when there was a chance that someone could still be saved, but he’d never questioned it before.
“He killed my mother, my father. Before Dad died… he told my brother, if he couldn’t save me, he’d have to kill me.”
“They play with us, fuck with our minds whenever they can. They can’t have any direct influence, so they use us, push us over the edge. Lies and truths all jumbled up until you can’t see straight. It’s how they operate. Even when you know that’s what they do, you can be taken in.” John rocked back on his seat, until he touched the wall, eyes half-closed as he watched Sam through his eyelashes.
“Will you help me?”
John gave the barest of nods.
*
“You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”
Sam nodded, slipping on Dean’s ring and pendent. They stood in the bathroom of the suite Sam had paid for. Much classier than his usually digs, but Constantine had explained that he needed to be fully emersed in water for the transition to work and no bathtub was ever going to be big enough to hold all of Sam’s six foot four inches of height. Though he removed his shoes, Sam was otherwise fully clothed as he stepped into the spa bath.
“Why water?”
“It’s a universal conduit; it lubricates the transition from one plane to another.”
“And Dean’s things will help me locate him?” Sam steeled himself, taking a deep breath.
“That’s the plan.”
Sam lay down. The cool water soaked into his clothes, making them heavy, and he allowed himself to gently sink to the bottom of the tub. John’s hands settled on his chest helping to hold him there. Sam held his breath, watching John Constantine’s stoic face through the rippling water. A slow stream of bubbles rose from his nose and mouth, drifting up to the water’s surface until there were no more, until Sam’s vision began to grey around the edges bringing with it panic.
He was aware of John’s knees and the man’s full weight coming to bear on him, holding him under. Sam’s position on his back and the slippery surface of the tub afforded him little to no leverage with which to force John off - if that was what he wanted - and then time slowed, the grey around his vision turned to red and the sickly smell of sulphur was all around.
Red sky, red ground, like someone filtered the light and turned up the heat. Sulphur burnt Sam’s nose, choked him with every breath. Demons stretched before him and converged upon him - wretched, naked, pale and corpse-like, some missing body parts. They walked upright, slithering and limping or running on all-fours like tormented animals.
Sam raised his head, struggling to stand and then run. Fighting to escape the demons’ clutches long enough to find Dean. Then Dean was there. He stood as he had died, still bloody and scratched from the hell hounds that had come for him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Dean mouthed, his eyes full of more pain and horror at seeing his brother here than anything in his surroundings seemed to have caused.
“I’m coming for you, Dean. Be ready. I need you first in line.” Sam hacked and coughed as the sulphur stole his breath from him.
“Sam, get out now.” Dean stepped in front of Sam as the demons converged on him and he was lost to Sam’s sight in the writhing mass of demon bodies.
Sam burst from the tub, hacking and coughing as sulphur and steam rose from his clothing and the bathroom once again came into focus.
“I hope it was worth it.” John’s dry statement pulled Sam back to himself.
“Hell yeah.” Sam lay there, sulphur-laced steam rising from his wet body; a limp puddle on the tiled floor.
*
The Colt slid home. Without bullets, a key was all it was now, and it turned in the lock with unexpected ease, heavy door swinging open for as long as Sam couldn’t get it shut again. What were a few more demons loose on the world, really?
Then Dean was there, leather jacket and worn jeans, working with Sam to close the gate. It was Dean as he’d been before the hell hounds had come, solid and real beside Sam and, for a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. For a moment, Sam imagined that they’d get in the Impala and drive away together. Then the door clanged shut.
“Dean.” Sam stared at his big brother, hardly able to believe it worked and he was really there.
“I got your message.”
“I had to, Dean.”
“You idiot!” Dean didn’t really look angry, more bemused as he toed at the dirt with his boot.
“I had to,” Sam repeated.
“I know.” Dean scratched a hand through his hair, relief written in his expression when he looked up. “Thank you.”
Sam pulled Dean toward him in a fierce hug, Dean reaching up to ruffle Sam’s hair like they were kids again, before they stepped apart.
“I have to go now.” Dean swiped at the tears on his face.
Sam nodded, took a deep breath and another step back, his own tears falling freely as he squinted against the light.
He watched Dean go.
Author: starrylizard
Fandom: Supernatural/Constantine crossover
Characters: Sam Winchester, John Constantine
Rating: Teen, Gen, Future!fic (for both fandoms)
Summary: Sam is determined to get his brother out of hell.
Notes: Takes place sometime after the S2 finale for Supernatural and after the movie. Constantine (2005) is a movie starring Keanu Reeves as John Constantine, a down and out demon hunter living in LA. My beta, rinkle, hasn’t seen Constantine and she seemed to still be able to follow the story. All comments, including constructive criticism, welcomed. Also for prompt #12 Hell on my Paranormal25 Table.
Los Angeles. The City of Angels; possibly a misnomer, or perhaps a private joke, for here there had always been the highest concentration of demonic possessions in America. It wasn’t the case now, not since the Hell Gate was opened. Now there were plenty of demons to go around, but this was still where you came if you wanted to find a specialist. Sam needed a specialist.
The rumbling purr of the Impala seemed to blend in with this part of the city, with its darkened streets and flickering, half-lit neon signs. Sam pulled over on sighting the apartment block his source had indicated. Old and worn, it looked about ready to be condemned; then again, he’d certainly stayed, squatted even, in far worse places. Across the way stood an ancient-looking bowling alley, obviously no longer in use. He scrubbed a hand over his face, idly scratching at the stubble he’d yet to trim, before sniff-testing his shirt and contemplating if he had a cleaner one stashed somewhere in the back. Now that he was here, Sam suddenly felt as tired and worn as the buildings around him - reluctant to go in.
Sam rested his forehead on the steering wheel, running an appreciative hand along the dashboard. It was calming, grounding - reminding him of his purpose. With a deep breath, he turned off the engine and stepped from the car, noting the exaggerated creak of the doors as he did. Dean would have fixed that by now. Sam filed it away for later.
The entranceway, including the wooden door, was heavily etched with symbols and ancient writing. Wards and protection runes; some Sam recognised, others that he’d like to study one day. Drawing his eyes back to the door, Sam banged a fist against it and waited. A moment later, a few choice swear words from inside let him know he’d been heard, before the door was roughly pulled open.
“What?” The man looked expectantly at Sam, his hand gripped on the door edge as if ready to slam it in Sam’s face. He was shorter than Sam, about Dean’s height, short dark hair and a shirt and tie that made him look like he’d come from a long day at the office rather than a day of exorcisms or demon hunting.
“John Constantine?”
“Depends who’s asking?”
“My name is Sam, Sam Winchester. I came to ask for your help.”
“I’m not really in a helpful mood today.” The man’s demeanour didn’t change, if anything he looked even more ready to slam the door.
“It’s about my brother. If I could just explain?” Sam kept his shoulders squared and, despite the politely chosen words, let some of his annoyance seep into his own expression - a little of his desperation too. “Please.”
“Winchester. I’ve heard of you. Met your father once.” The man, John Constantine, stepped away from the door and sluggishly moved toward a table and a half-finished bottle of Jack.
Sam, taking it as the best invitation he was going to get, let himself in. The room he found himself in served as a kitchen; green-edged yellow painted walls and moth-eaten blinds accompanied by ancient-looking kitchen appliances and the table he’d already noted. Sam ran his fingers across a windowsill, feeling grains of salt roll rough beneath his fingertips.
“My brother’s in hell.”
“So are a lot of people. Let’s get to the part where I care.” John poured himself another drink and sat down, staring at the amber liquid as it sloshed around the glass.
“You got out. And I’m told you can cross into hell and back.” Sam stood looking out the small window, down to the street below and Dean’s car. His car, now. Sam found his hands were sweating. He wiped them on his jeans before turning back to face Constantine. “I need you to find my brother.”
“Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that Hell’s less than a nice place, and I’m sorry your brother’s there, but you’re wasting my time. Once you’re in hell, there’s no getting out, no special passes for playing nice; he’s there for eternity.” John, though clearly irritated, did seem genuinely sorry for Sam. He sat back in a loose-limbed, alcohol-induced sprawl, with an expression that clearly said ‘let it go.’
“Could you just get a message to him?”
“No.”
“Then teach me. I’ll do it myself.” Sam clenched his hands into fists held tightly at his side, breathing uneven.
“If you think you can just walk into hell and grab your brother, then you’re insane. Even if it was possible for you to cross between planes, and I highly doubt you can, you really don’t want to do that. It’s not a good holiday destination.”
“I still need to try.” Sam’s voice cracked slightly, his eyes dropping back to the window, focus drifting again to the car below. “I need to try. It’s my fault he’s there.”
John stood, a little unsteady, but not yet fall down drunk by any means, and fetched a second glass from a cabinet. He sat back down heavily and waved a hand to Sam to sit. Sam continued to stand where he was, but nodded an acknowledgement of the offer.
“I heard tales about you. Some said you were a psychic; some that you were the Antichrist himself come to destroy us. You’re clearly not possessed, so I’m going to assume the latter isn’t true. Are you some sort of psychic?”
“That all stopped. We killed the yellow-eyed demon and it stopped.” Sam talked to the window still, but turned back as John began to chuckle deep in his throat. “What?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that demons lie?”
“Of course they lie, but they’ll tell the truth too, if it’ll hurt you. Gonna let me in on the joke?”
“Demon blood doesn’t a psychic make.”
Sam felt like someone had punched him in the gut. It took him a moment to reply and when he did, he found his voice shook slightly.
“How could you know about that?”
“So it’s true then. Yellow-eyes had you all fooled.”
“What do you mean?” Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion and finally sat down, before reaching for the glass that John had filled generously for him. He tipped his head back to drink it down in one gulp, grimacing as it burnt a comforting trail down to his stomach.
“You’re born psychic. Some can ignore it, others think they’re crazy, but you’re born able to see them and with that ability you attract them - demons, angels; you attract them like a moth to a flame, flies to shit. You can sense them, so they can sense you.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. He’d always seen the real evil in the things they hunted, been able to stay his hand when there was a chance that someone could still be saved, but he’d never questioned it before.
“He killed my mother, my father. Before Dad died… he told my brother, if he couldn’t save me, he’d have to kill me.”
“They play with us, fuck with our minds whenever they can. They can’t have any direct influence, so they use us, push us over the edge. Lies and truths all jumbled up until you can’t see straight. It’s how they operate. Even when you know that’s what they do, you can be taken in.” John rocked back on his seat, until he touched the wall, eyes half-closed as he watched Sam through his eyelashes.
“Will you help me?”
John gave the barest of nods.
*
“You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”
Sam nodded, slipping on Dean’s ring and pendent. They stood in the bathroom of the suite Sam had paid for. Much classier than his usually digs, but Constantine had explained that he needed to be fully emersed in water for the transition to work and no bathtub was ever going to be big enough to hold all of Sam’s six foot four inches of height. Though he removed his shoes, Sam was otherwise fully clothed as he stepped into the spa bath.
“Why water?”
“It’s a universal conduit; it lubricates the transition from one plane to another.”
“And Dean’s things will help me locate him?” Sam steeled himself, taking a deep breath.
“That’s the plan.”
Sam lay down. The cool water soaked into his clothes, making them heavy, and he allowed himself to gently sink to the bottom of the tub. John’s hands settled on his chest helping to hold him there. Sam held his breath, watching John Constantine’s stoic face through the rippling water. A slow stream of bubbles rose from his nose and mouth, drifting up to the water’s surface until there were no more, until Sam’s vision began to grey around the edges bringing with it panic.
He was aware of John’s knees and the man’s full weight coming to bear on him, holding him under. Sam’s position on his back and the slippery surface of the tub afforded him little to no leverage with which to force John off - if that was what he wanted - and then time slowed, the grey around his vision turned to red and the sickly smell of sulphur was all around.
Red sky, red ground, like someone filtered the light and turned up the heat. Sulphur burnt Sam’s nose, choked him with every breath. Demons stretched before him and converged upon him - wretched, naked, pale and corpse-like, some missing body parts. They walked upright, slithering and limping or running on all-fours like tormented animals.
Sam raised his head, struggling to stand and then run. Fighting to escape the demons’ clutches long enough to find Dean. Then Dean was there. He stood as he had died, still bloody and scratched from the hell hounds that had come for him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Dean mouthed, his eyes full of more pain and horror at seeing his brother here than anything in his surroundings seemed to have caused.
“I’m coming for you, Dean. Be ready. I need you first in line.” Sam hacked and coughed as the sulphur stole his breath from him.
“Sam, get out now.” Dean stepped in front of Sam as the demons converged on him and he was lost to Sam’s sight in the writhing mass of demon bodies.
Sam burst from the tub, hacking and coughing as sulphur and steam rose from his clothing and the bathroom once again came into focus.
“I hope it was worth it.” John’s dry statement pulled Sam back to himself.
“Hell yeah.” Sam lay there, sulphur-laced steam rising from his wet body; a limp puddle on the tiled floor.
*
The Colt slid home. Without bullets, a key was all it was now, and it turned in the lock with unexpected ease, heavy door swinging open for as long as Sam couldn’t get it shut again. What were a few more demons loose on the world, really?
Then Dean was there, leather jacket and worn jeans, working with Sam to close the gate. It was Dean as he’d been before the hell hounds had come, solid and real beside Sam and, for a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. For a moment, Sam imagined that they’d get in the Impala and drive away together. Then the door clanged shut.
“Dean.” Sam stared at his big brother, hardly able to believe it worked and he was really there.
“I got your message.”
“I had to, Dean.”
“You idiot!” Dean didn’t really look angry, more bemused as he toed at the dirt with his boot.
“I had to,” Sam repeated.
“I know.” Dean scratched a hand through his hair, relief written in his expression when he looked up. “Thank you.”
Sam pulled Dean toward him in a fierce hug, Dean reaching up to ruffle Sam’s hair like they were kids again, before they stepped apart.
“I have to go now.” Dean swiped at the tears on his face.
Sam nodded, took a deep breath and another step back, his own tears falling freely as he squinted against the light.
He watched Dean go.