Fic: Repo Men: The Upside-Down Apocalypse 4/?
This fic is the flashback/followup/presickle/longfic spawn of REPO MEN. READ REPO MEN HERE.
Repo Men: The Upside-Down Apocalypse
Author: tahirire
Rating: R
Wordcount: 4000 (This chapter)
Beta: blacklid
Genre: Gen. Angst. H/C.
Spoilers: Goes a/u from 3.16, but there will be spoilers for all episodes through 5.22.
Warnings: My generic major character death fic list. This fic contains dark imagery, excessive gore, language, violence, torture, memories of torture, and gleeful pretzelfication of canon, WIP.
A/N: Yes, I am still working on this. SHOCKING, I KNOW. The next two chapters are also nearly ready. (You can all get back up off the floor now. ) Also - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JARED. It sucks working on your birthday, but maybe you can shove icing up Misha's nose or something to compensate. :)
Chapter 1: Hell | Chapter 2: The Book | Chapter 3: Burn the Ships
Chapter 4: War and Peace
Sam doesn’t stay still for long. One minute he sits as though he could be carved from stone, staring somewhere in between Ruby’s body and the space beyond, and the next he’s all motion, lifting from the floor fluidly and without a single trace of weakness.
“We need to move,” he says, holding out a hand to Dean, “I should have left here weeks ago.”
Sam’s palm is a dark rusty brown, flakes of dried blood curling up at the creases. When Dean reaches to take it in his own, they match. “Can’t go anywhere looking like this,” Dean offers as he stands, shrugging at their clothes, “and what about her?”
Sam scans the room once before pulling off his shirt over his head, not bothering with the buttons. He tosses it into the pile of already shredded fabric lying next to the corpse instead of draping it over her, leaving her untouched now that his need for her has passed. Dean raises his eyebrows, but Sam just starts unbuckling his jeans.
“Leave anything bloody and follow me. We can wash up out back.”
They strip to their boxers and Dean follows Sam through the farmhouse and out into a wildly overgrown field. Dean breathes deeply, relishing the fresh scent of the air around him, the feel of grass between his toes. He follows Sam into the trees. He keeps sight of Sam even in the dark, the moonlight painting his brother with a blue tinge, highlighting his movements. Sam passes through the high grasses without a sound.
They don’t have to go far. Sam holds up a hand to signal Dean to stop in the shadows of the tree line, and then bends to splash clear water on his face. Dean hesitates, scanning their surroundings. He remembers Sam’s voice in his head, weeks before he died, acting as an eerie narrative to a real life horror movie. According to this, Benton is picky about where he sets up his lab. He likes dense forest with access to a river or stream, or some kind of fresh water.
Dean steps down into the creek and the water feels like ice. He rinses his chest two handfuls at a time, watching the clear water run in red rivulets down his arms, and he reminds himself that Sam isn’t the only one who has changed.
Everything was in the book. Everything.
The way Sam had retrieved it one desperate night after a demon told him his soul wasn’t worth a deal. How Ruby had bought her way back in by showing him a path to walk. How she took Dean’s place as Sam’s only ally. That Sam had learned to save people even while knowingly damning himself.
How everything had come down to Lilith, and all of Sam’s hopes for vengeance and retribution had turned to betrayal and blood and ashes in his hands.
Sam moves deeper into the water, setting off ripple patterns as he moves. He ducks down until he can lean his head back, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Ruby’s blood lifts away from him, forming a dark halo against the glow of white sand underneath.
Dean finds himself watching his brother, trying to catalog the changes one by one like so much inventory. Lucifer had tracked Sam down after he escaped the convent, coming to Sam in his dreams and offering him the world. He’d promised that Dean would be returned safe and sound, if only Sam would say yes.
But Sam said no.
Sam pauses with an odd look on his face, and Dean realizes that he’s been staring, looking for a clue as to what Sam will do next. “What?”
Dean may have summoned Ruby but Sam is calling the shots on this fight, and Dean feels like he’s going in blind. “I think I’m all caught up,” Dean says, deciding not to skirt the issue. “A few questions, though.”
Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Sure.”
“How come we don’t have angels knockin’ down our door? If everybody’s looking for us, shouldn’t we be in lockdown somewhere by now?”
Sam shrugs, like it’s as simple as putting Dean’s number on the ‘do not call’ list. “Sigil. Carved it into your ribs.”
Dean’s stolen heart thumps hard against those same ribs, and he remembers again the corpses in the field. Demons, Sam had written, don’t leave people alive much these days, but they keep their parts running nice and smooth.
Dean’s eyes wander the gentle slope of the tree line. All traces of weakness or exhaustion have vanished from his brother, leaving a darkly shimmering field of restrained energy behind. Sam feels like a nuke about to go off, but Dean knows he won’t see it if Sam turns to meet his eyes.
I only had to reconstruct the inside.
The image of Sam’s knife inside his chest, Sam’s hands slippery with his blood as he carves into his bones, rises unbidden from his memories. Dean can’t think about that now. He won’t.
“And who carved yours?”
Sam huffs a small laugh. It sounds raw and thin. He looks at Dean and taps his chest with one finger, then looks away again. “An angel.”
Dean nods, recalling what Sam wrote about his only contact with the other side. “So what’s the plan? Hide out? Check out Amsterdam before it goes up in flames?”
Sam’s eyes glitter, reflecting back the moonlight. “We’re gonna kill the devil.”
Dean feels his jaw drop, but the hunter’s instinct inside him kicks off a promising rush of adrenaline.
Sam stands abruptly and heads back to shore, shaking a spray of water out of his hair. “C’mon, I’ve got your clean stuff in your duffel. Packed it for you.”
Dean checks himself. He can’t tell if there are any spots he may have missed in the dark, but he feels lighter somehow. He follows Sam without a word, shivering a little as his skin adjusts back to the air around him. When they break the tree line he glances down at his chest, curious, and sees that his tattoo is still in place.
As they near the farmhouse, Sam turns off the path. He stops to wrestle open a cellar door, barely noticeable under an overgrowth of vines, and gestures Dean onward. “Go ahead, I gotta grab a few things.”
Dean finds his bag near the front entrance, packed and ready like it was waiting for him. He shucks the wet boxers in favor of a fresh pair and sighs as he pulls on his favorite jeans. Underneath his t-shirts and button ups, rolled neatly into the bottom of the bag, is his green jacket. He takes it out and shrugs it on. Something jingles in the pocket and when his fingers sink into the folds of fabric, they brush something familiar.
“Thought maybe you could drive if you’re up for it,” Sam says from the hallway. Dean didn’t even hear him come in.
He lifts the keys and he feels himself smile. “Yeah, thanks.” He zips the bag shut and throws the strap over his shoulder. Sam is dressed already and he carries two bags; his duffle from the bedroom, and a thicker canvas bag that Dean has never seen before. “What’s that?”
Sam shifts his grip on the bag as he skirts the mess in the living room, and Dean realizes that whatever’s in it, it’s heavy. Sam looks straight at Dean, like he’s trying to get a read on him. “Freezer bag,” he says.
Dean waits a full thirty seconds before prompting, “… for?”
Sam’s expression becomes almost amused, like Dean is missing a major point somehow. “For supplies.”
“Oh. For your -?”
Sam laughs then, one time, and shakes his head, pushing past Dean to head outside, where the Impala’s silhouette waits for them at the end of a worn dirt road. “For you. Think immortality is easy?”
Dean’s mind shies away from that thought a little bit, but he can feel himself clicking into some sort of rhythm, remembering how this being alive thing works, and so he just shrugs. For now, he’s with Sam. The rest, he can figure out later.
The click of the key in the lock of the trunk echoes through the empty spaces in his soul, bouncing around until it amplifies almost loud enough to hear. He lifts the false trunk up and looks inside, expecting a stunning display of Sam’s OCD tendencies, but instead his old life whispers to him, calling him to resume the road he walked before.
Nothing is different, but everything has changed.
Sam grabs a can of gasoline and leaves Dean to the loading, going back inside the house without a word. He returns a few moments later just as silently and climbs into the passenger’s seat. He rests his head gratefully against the leather, smiling softly.
Dean grins at him. “Hit the road?”
“Hit the road,” Sam agrees.
Flames begin to rise behind them, reaching to lick the early morning sky as the house, with all of its blood and secrets, starts to vanish. Dean concentrates on the rumble of his baby and the heartbeat of his brother, and he leaves the fire behind.
~*~
They drive for a solid eight hours before Sam clears his throat and asks Dean if he’s hungry. Dean doesn’t know jack about Heaven, but compared to Hell the idea of a burger with bacon and smothered in extra cheese sounds just about as close as he can hope to get.
They find a diner and Sam guides Dean to a booth on the far wall, places his back to the door. Their waiter, bright yellow nameplate cheerfully displaying ‘Neil’ in bold black letters, asks what he can do for them today. Sam grunts, “Just water, thanks,” and Dean hides his frown behind his menu.
“Cheeseburger, double bacon, extra onions, hold the pickles, cheese fries. Coke. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake. Thanks.” Dean waits until the Neil rounds the corner to the kitchen and snaps his fingers in Sam’s face. “Sam. What’s wrong with you?”
Sam looks surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You gotta eat something, man. I’m guessing that wasting away to nothing and passing out on me isn’t part of your brilliant plant to ice the devil.”
Sam’s eyebrows draw together and he looks down at the table and lets his hair fall across his eyes. His voice is quiet and low. “I’m not hungry.”
Dean shrugs, ignoring the way he can almost hear Sam’s heartbeat in his head. He chooses to pretend that the light bulb over their booth is only flickering because it needs to be changed. “Suit yourself,” he shrugs. “More for me.”
Sam nods absently, scanning the diner in a rote pattern like it has become a habit so ingrained that he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
Dean leans back against the booth cushion. “So what’s our next move? We got a destination on this little reunion tour of yours?”
Sam looks at Dean like he only just noticed him sitting there. “What?”
Neil interrupts then, setting down the cheese fries in between them and asking, “Would you like any sauce?”
Dean nods and requests Ranch, relieved when Neil scurries away. He edges forward in his seat and grabs a handful of the fries. “What do you mean, what?”
Sam rubs his eyes tiredly. “Yeah, sorry. Look, I’m still working on the plan. Let’s concentrate on getting you adjusted first; Lucifer will still be around tomorrow. Relax a minute.”
Dean really wants to argue that he’s fine, everything is ticking and there is no reason to wait, but it turns out that cheese dripping over warm fried potatoes is very, very distracting.
~*~
When they stop for the night, Sam heads on to their room while Dean sifts through the contents of the Impala’s trunk, taking a moment to marvel that Sam still has all of his stuff. He hefts his old Colt 1911 in his right hand. It seems heavy and cumbersome, an awkward and unbalancing extension of his arm; nothing like the finesse of the weapons he has become used to. Without Sam at his side, here alone in the parking lot, he can hear the sound of screams. Tinnitus of the soul. Fantastic. He snorts bitterly.
He’s about to push his key into the lock when he notices that Sam isn’t alone.
Hushed, angry voices drift through the thin wall, and Dean drops into a crouch. Sam is arguing with someone, a guy from the sounds of it, but Dean can’t quite make out the words. He inches toward the window, not daring to touch the doorframe. Sam probably has superhuman hearing these days, and chances are his brother has sensed him already.
“There is no more time,” the stranger’s voice is saying. The sound is deep and rough, hovering over a weirdly intense register. “The horsemen are driving across the land. Michael is considering another vessel.” The voice takes on a slightly more desperate note. “Sam, what I have done … even just speaking with you is grounds for being cast from Heaven. You and your brother - “
Sam shifts and Dean ducks closer to the window’s edge to avoid being seen. Sam’s voice is flat and leaves no room for argument.
“Dean just got back,” Sam hisses coldly. “I’m grateful for your intel, I am. But I’m not throwing him right back in before he’s ready just because your brothers can’t keep it in their pants!”
The voice hesitates. “I regret your involvement, perhaps more than you know.” Then it grows stronger, as if gaining conviction. “War has risen. He rides East, approaching Colorado.”
“How do we stop him?”
The stranger doesn’t answer.
Dean pulls up to the window frame, trying to see the strange man. Sam’s broad shoulders block any chance of a glimpse of the stranger, who is standing just out of Dean’s line of sight.
“One more thing,” the stranger says. There is a long pause and then he adds, “There are still powerful demons helping to advance Lucifer’s plans. Your brother’s mentor is among them.”
A chill runs through Dean. Alastair is number one on his list of demons that he would rather not run into, and for good reason. On the other hand … taking him out would be the sweetest kind of revenge. He can even think of a few ways to make it last forever.
Sam’s hands curl into fists, and Dean feels his brother’s power flare out, boiling with anger as Sam has similar thoughts.
“We have not been able to locate him. Perhaps you can.”
Sam answers instantly. “It’s done.”
There is a ripple of electricity in the air, and Dean yelps in spite of himself, pulling his hand away from the metal window frame. The shocking sensation dulls quickly into an annoying ache. He freezes, holding his sore hand in the other, and listens.
The door cracks open and Sam sticks his head out. “You know, your car makes a lot of noise.”
Dean shakes out his hand, shrugging nonchalantly.
“You’ve never been a good eavesdropper,” Sam adds.
“Tell that to the Berkley twins,” Dean says, grinning widely.
Sam laughs, but he doesn’t smile. “Get in here. We need to talk.”
Dean follows, taking a seat on the nearest bed. “Who was that?”
“He’s a contact, and I need you to stay away from him,” Sam answers.
Dean grins. “Aw, Sammy, I never figured you for the jealous type. Come on, I won’t try to steal your boyfriend.”
Sam fixes Dean with a flat stare, dead serious, and Dean’s grin falters. “He’s an angel.”
“Oh,” Dean mumbles. He thinks back to what he overheard, and he decides to start with the least daunting prospect the angel had laid out for Sam. “So … War. As in the horseman?”
Sam sighs. “Pretty much. Guess we gotta check it out.”
Dean waits for Sam to elaborate, but he only starts unpacking a change of clothes from his bag, subject closed. “You’re serious. War. Just the two of us.”
Sam nods tightly. “Yep. “
Dean’s throat goes dry at Sam’s don’t-ask tone. He asks anyway. “What about Bobby, what about El-“
Sam slashes his hand through the air like a blade. “Forget Bobby. We got nobody but us, Dean. Nobody.”
Sam takes his change of clothes into the bathroom and starts the water running. Dean stretches out on his bed and tries not to imagine the sounds their voices probably made when they died.
~*~
The scene in Colorado is a massacre. In the midst of all the wreckage, a cherry red Mustang gleams in the afternoon sun. Dean parks the Impala next to her, and Sam nods his grim approval. “Think he’s still here?” Dean asks.
Sam closes his eyes for a second, then smiles. A chill touches Dean, light like the feather touch of spider’s feet. When Sam opens his eyes again, they are solid black. “Absolutely.”
They split up, picking their separate ways across bodies broken and bleeding out into the dirt and grass and skirting the burnt-out husks of cars. Distant gunfire echoes down the street from an old white-planked two story, and Dean heads that way. An overturned baby carriage and some stuffed kid’s toys are strewn around the lawn next door. Blood smears stain the asphalt where somebody was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Suddenly the noises stop, plunging him into a dead zone.
“That your car back there?”
Dean spins around. A man with peppered grey hair in a slick business suit is standing behind him, cleaning his glasses on the edge of his tie. Smoke from a burning hardware store forms a wall for him to lean against. “You’re War,” Dean accuses. The man seems to be made up of straining, mutilated corpses and held together with ashes, the blaze of destructive fire spitting out hatred where his eyes should be. Dean’s vision stutters and blurs.
The horseman sighs dramatically. “Always late, my siblings. Think they have all the time in the world.”
The horseman’s voice is made of chopper blades and gunfire, tinged with women and children screaming. Everything seems washed in a red haze. Dean touches his cheek with his fingertips and pulls them away to find them stained with blood. The horseman tilts his head. “I saw that car of yours and I thought, vintage makes sense. Too bad. Hoped you were my brother.”
Dean drops his gaze away and blinks to clear his eyes, clear his head. “What did you do to this town,” he growls.
“Who, me? Next to nothing. You know, people don’t really need a reason to kill each other. I’m Jell-O shots at a party, pal. All I do is remove inhibitions.” He licks his lips and laughs, a rolling, grating sound. “Although, in your case…”
War raises his hand and twists the ring on his finger, a smug grin on his human face like a salesman who just sold his first junk car to an unsuspecting teenager. War’s true form shrinks and fades away, leaving just the salt-and-pepper haired man behind. “Can you see me now?” The human host’s smile is wolfish, all pointed teeth. “Got a lot of friends that are lookin’ for you, kiddo.”
The red haze fades, leaving only a dull ache behind. Dean rubs his eyes with one knuckle and flicks the horseman off with his free hand. “Screw you, buddy,” he reiterates, “I’m nobody’s puppet.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Where’s your brother, Dean?”
A swift shadow reaches out from the fog and encircles the horseman. “I’m right here,” Sam hisses, and he twists War’s arm behind his back and pulls with the knife. War vanishes in a burst of flames, and when the air clears, the black that Dean had seen inside Sam’s eyes is gone.
Sam holds out his hand and Dean walks over for closer inspection. War’s ring is a simple band of yellow gold, and Dean grins. “So … side trip to Mount Doom?”
Sam regards the ring thoughtfully before dropping it into his pocket. “You’re bleeding.” Sam swipes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, and it comes away red. “What happened?”
“Dude was an eyeful,” Dean waves him off. “It’s no big deal.”
Sam frowns. “You could see him?”
Dean blinks again, but the red haze and dark spots in his vision don’t clear. “It’s fine,” he answers honestly, “doesn’t even hurt.”
Sam purses his lips, but seems to think better of arguing. Instead, he points to the house in the distance. “Come on. Maybe there are survivors.”
~*~
Dean rounds the hallway corner into a sun room full of shattered glass. His eyes see the boots first, then the slim-cut jeans, then the pale hand still wrapped around the stock of a 12 gauge. His breath catches in his throat.
“Dammit, Jo.”
She’s sitting against the wall as if she could just be asleep. Dean wants to believe that, but the blood tells him different. It wasn’t a demon that killed her; it was a bullet, high caliber, probably from the same rifle that broke the window. Dean kneels down on one knee and tilts her face towards the fading stream of sunlight glittering off the jagged shards left behind. Her soft hair falls back uncovering her sightless, staring eyes.
“They had a sniper,” Dean whispers. It’s almost as if she’s looking at him, listening. There is something about her that’s different from before. He realizes with a touch of pride that it’s the absence of fear. He can almost see the hunter she became.
Slow footsteps approach from behind, signaling the end of his recon. Dean eases the shotgun from Jo’s hand and pushes it away. Then he pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead in a brief farewell before laying her down on the floor. He brushes her hair down across her shoulders, but he pauses before shutting her eyes.
He wants to say he’s sorry, but he’s not. Cradled in the afternoon glow, Jo is the perfect image of a fallen warrior; a fierce opponent who died as she lived, with passion and purpose. Jo had taken the path Dean always planned to tread, fighting to the end to protect the ones she loved before taking a reaper’s hand and leaving the battlefield for good.
Dean’s palm hovers uncertainly over her staring eyes as he tries to read her last thoughts. Inexplicably, he wishes she had a message for him. Suddenly he wants to keep something of hers, something to carry her with him always. Something to remind him of the kind of man he used to be; of what it meant to be a hunter - a human.
Dean’s hovering hand comes to rest on her cheek, and he runs his thumb across the high bone beneath her fixed stare.
Sam enters the room and comes to a stop behind his brother, resting a light hand on his shoulder. Dean can sense Sam nodding his silent understanding. There is a dull clatter on the wood floor next to Dean, and he can see a wobbling handle out of the corner of his eye. “Rufus is dead. Meet me back at the car when you’re ready.” Sam squeezes Dean’s shoulder, then takes his hand away. “You know, she always did have eyes for you.”
Dean rips his gaze away from Jo, but Sam is already pushing past them and in three steps he rounds the corner, leaving Dean alone.
Dean reaches for the knife, and it fits perfectly in his hand. The shards of glass reflect his face in multi-faceted pictures, a window to what is left of his soul, tiny shimmering snapshots of what he has become. The images are frightening, dark and swimming with tainted blood.
Dean carves for himself innocent eyes, eyes that have never seen the fires of Hell. It’s a start.
Chapter 5: Death and Taxes
Repo Men: The Upside-Down Apocalypse
Author: tahirire
Rating: R
Wordcount: 4000 (This chapter)
Beta: blacklid
Genre: Gen. Angst. H/C.
Spoilers: Goes a/u from 3.16, but there will be spoilers for all episodes through 5.22.
Warnings: My generic major character death fic list. This fic contains dark imagery, excessive gore, language, violence, torture, memories of torture, and gleeful pretzelfication of canon, WIP.
A/N: Yes, I am still working on this. SHOCKING, I KNOW. The next two chapters are also nearly ready. (You can all get back up off the floor now. ) Also - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JARED. It sucks working on your birthday, but maybe you can shove icing up Misha's nose or something to compensate. :)
Chapter 1: Hell | Chapter 2: The Book | Chapter 3: Burn the Ships
Chapter 4: War and Peace
Sam doesn’t stay still for long. One minute he sits as though he could be carved from stone, staring somewhere in between Ruby’s body and the space beyond, and the next he’s all motion, lifting from the floor fluidly and without a single trace of weakness.
“We need to move,” he says, holding out a hand to Dean, “I should have left here weeks ago.”
Sam’s palm is a dark rusty brown, flakes of dried blood curling up at the creases. When Dean reaches to take it in his own, they match. “Can’t go anywhere looking like this,” Dean offers as he stands, shrugging at their clothes, “and what about her?”
Sam scans the room once before pulling off his shirt over his head, not bothering with the buttons. He tosses it into the pile of already shredded fabric lying next to the corpse instead of draping it over her, leaving her untouched now that his need for her has passed. Dean raises his eyebrows, but Sam just starts unbuckling his jeans.
“Leave anything bloody and follow me. We can wash up out back.”
They strip to their boxers and Dean follows Sam through the farmhouse and out into a wildly overgrown field. Dean breathes deeply, relishing the fresh scent of the air around him, the feel of grass between his toes. He follows Sam into the trees. He keeps sight of Sam even in the dark, the moonlight painting his brother with a blue tinge, highlighting his movements. Sam passes through the high grasses without a sound.
They don’t have to go far. Sam holds up a hand to signal Dean to stop in the shadows of the tree line, and then bends to splash clear water on his face. Dean hesitates, scanning their surroundings. He remembers Sam’s voice in his head, weeks before he died, acting as an eerie narrative to a real life horror movie. According to this, Benton is picky about where he sets up his lab. He likes dense forest with access to a river or stream, or some kind of fresh water.
Dean steps down into the creek and the water feels like ice. He rinses his chest two handfuls at a time, watching the clear water run in red rivulets down his arms, and he reminds himself that Sam isn’t the only one who has changed.
Everything was in the book. Everything.
The way Sam had retrieved it one desperate night after a demon told him his soul wasn’t worth a deal. How Ruby had bought her way back in by showing him a path to walk. How she took Dean’s place as Sam’s only ally. That Sam had learned to save people even while knowingly damning himself.
How everything had come down to Lilith, and all of Sam’s hopes for vengeance and retribution had turned to betrayal and blood and ashes in his hands.
Sam moves deeper into the water, setting off ripple patterns as he moves. He ducks down until he can lean his head back, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Ruby’s blood lifts away from him, forming a dark halo against the glow of white sand underneath.
Dean finds himself watching his brother, trying to catalog the changes one by one like so much inventory. Lucifer had tracked Sam down after he escaped the convent, coming to Sam in his dreams and offering him the world. He’d promised that Dean would be returned safe and sound, if only Sam would say yes.
But Sam said no.
Sam pauses with an odd look on his face, and Dean realizes that he’s been staring, looking for a clue as to what Sam will do next. “What?”
Dean may have summoned Ruby but Sam is calling the shots on this fight, and Dean feels like he’s going in blind. “I think I’m all caught up,” Dean says, deciding not to skirt the issue. “A few questions, though.”
Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Sure.”
“How come we don’t have angels knockin’ down our door? If everybody’s looking for us, shouldn’t we be in lockdown somewhere by now?”
Sam shrugs, like it’s as simple as putting Dean’s number on the ‘do not call’ list. “Sigil. Carved it into your ribs.”
Dean’s stolen heart thumps hard against those same ribs, and he remembers again the corpses in the field. Demons, Sam had written, don’t leave people alive much these days, but they keep their parts running nice and smooth.
Dean’s eyes wander the gentle slope of the tree line. All traces of weakness or exhaustion have vanished from his brother, leaving a darkly shimmering field of restrained energy behind. Sam feels like a nuke about to go off, but Dean knows he won’t see it if Sam turns to meet his eyes.
I only had to reconstruct the inside.
The image of Sam’s knife inside his chest, Sam’s hands slippery with his blood as he carves into his bones, rises unbidden from his memories. Dean can’t think about that now. He won’t.
“And who carved yours?”
Sam huffs a small laugh. It sounds raw and thin. He looks at Dean and taps his chest with one finger, then looks away again. “An angel.”
Dean nods, recalling what Sam wrote about his only contact with the other side. “So what’s the plan? Hide out? Check out Amsterdam before it goes up in flames?”
Sam’s eyes glitter, reflecting back the moonlight. “We’re gonna kill the devil.”
Dean feels his jaw drop, but the hunter’s instinct inside him kicks off a promising rush of adrenaline.
Sam stands abruptly and heads back to shore, shaking a spray of water out of his hair. “C’mon, I’ve got your clean stuff in your duffel. Packed it for you.”
Dean checks himself. He can’t tell if there are any spots he may have missed in the dark, but he feels lighter somehow. He follows Sam without a word, shivering a little as his skin adjusts back to the air around him. When they break the tree line he glances down at his chest, curious, and sees that his tattoo is still in place.
As they near the farmhouse, Sam turns off the path. He stops to wrestle open a cellar door, barely noticeable under an overgrowth of vines, and gestures Dean onward. “Go ahead, I gotta grab a few things.”
Dean finds his bag near the front entrance, packed and ready like it was waiting for him. He shucks the wet boxers in favor of a fresh pair and sighs as he pulls on his favorite jeans. Underneath his t-shirts and button ups, rolled neatly into the bottom of the bag, is his green jacket. He takes it out and shrugs it on. Something jingles in the pocket and when his fingers sink into the folds of fabric, they brush something familiar.
“Thought maybe you could drive if you’re up for it,” Sam says from the hallway. Dean didn’t even hear him come in.
He lifts the keys and he feels himself smile. “Yeah, thanks.” He zips the bag shut and throws the strap over his shoulder. Sam is dressed already and he carries two bags; his duffle from the bedroom, and a thicker canvas bag that Dean has never seen before. “What’s that?”
Sam shifts his grip on the bag as he skirts the mess in the living room, and Dean realizes that whatever’s in it, it’s heavy. Sam looks straight at Dean, like he’s trying to get a read on him. “Freezer bag,” he says.
Dean waits a full thirty seconds before prompting, “… for?”
Sam’s expression becomes almost amused, like Dean is missing a major point somehow. “For supplies.”
“Oh. For your -?”
Sam laughs then, one time, and shakes his head, pushing past Dean to head outside, where the Impala’s silhouette waits for them at the end of a worn dirt road. “For you. Think immortality is easy?”
Dean’s mind shies away from that thought a little bit, but he can feel himself clicking into some sort of rhythm, remembering how this being alive thing works, and so he just shrugs. For now, he’s with Sam. The rest, he can figure out later.
The click of the key in the lock of the trunk echoes through the empty spaces in his soul, bouncing around until it amplifies almost loud enough to hear. He lifts the false trunk up and looks inside, expecting a stunning display of Sam’s OCD tendencies, but instead his old life whispers to him, calling him to resume the road he walked before.
Nothing is different, but everything has changed.
Sam grabs a can of gasoline and leaves Dean to the loading, going back inside the house without a word. He returns a few moments later just as silently and climbs into the passenger’s seat. He rests his head gratefully against the leather, smiling softly.
Dean grins at him. “Hit the road?”
“Hit the road,” Sam agrees.
Flames begin to rise behind them, reaching to lick the early morning sky as the house, with all of its blood and secrets, starts to vanish. Dean concentrates on the rumble of his baby and the heartbeat of his brother, and he leaves the fire behind.
~*~
They drive for a solid eight hours before Sam clears his throat and asks Dean if he’s hungry. Dean doesn’t know jack about Heaven, but compared to Hell the idea of a burger with bacon and smothered in extra cheese sounds just about as close as he can hope to get.
They find a diner and Sam guides Dean to a booth on the far wall, places his back to the door. Their waiter, bright yellow nameplate cheerfully displaying ‘Neil’ in bold black letters, asks what he can do for them today. Sam grunts, “Just water, thanks,” and Dean hides his frown behind his menu.
“Cheeseburger, double bacon, extra onions, hold the pickles, cheese fries. Coke. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake. Thanks.” Dean waits until the Neil rounds the corner to the kitchen and snaps his fingers in Sam’s face. “Sam. What’s wrong with you?”
Sam looks surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You gotta eat something, man. I’m guessing that wasting away to nothing and passing out on me isn’t part of your brilliant plant to ice the devil.”
Sam’s eyebrows draw together and he looks down at the table and lets his hair fall across his eyes. His voice is quiet and low. “I’m not hungry.”
Dean shrugs, ignoring the way he can almost hear Sam’s heartbeat in his head. He chooses to pretend that the light bulb over their booth is only flickering because it needs to be changed. “Suit yourself,” he shrugs. “More for me.”
Sam nods absently, scanning the diner in a rote pattern like it has become a habit so ingrained that he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
Dean leans back against the booth cushion. “So what’s our next move? We got a destination on this little reunion tour of yours?”
Sam looks at Dean like he only just noticed him sitting there. “What?”
Neil interrupts then, setting down the cheese fries in between them and asking, “Would you like any sauce?”
Dean nods and requests Ranch, relieved when Neil scurries away. He edges forward in his seat and grabs a handful of the fries. “What do you mean, what?”
Sam rubs his eyes tiredly. “Yeah, sorry. Look, I’m still working on the plan. Let’s concentrate on getting you adjusted first; Lucifer will still be around tomorrow. Relax a minute.”
Dean really wants to argue that he’s fine, everything is ticking and there is no reason to wait, but it turns out that cheese dripping over warm fried potatoes is very, very distracting.
~*~
When they stop for the night, Sam heads on to their room while Dean sifts through the contents of the Impala’s trunk, taking a moment to marvel that Sam still has all of his stuff. He hefts his old Colt 1911 in his right hand. It seems heavy and cumbersome, an awkward and unbalancing extension of his arm; nothing like the finesse of the weapons he has become used to. Without Sam at his side, here alone in the parking lot, he can hear the sound of screams. Tinnitus of the soul. Fantastic. He snorts bitterly.
He’s about to push his key into the lock when he notices that Sam isn’t alone.
Hushed, angry voices drift through the thin wall, and Dean drops into a crouch. Sam is arguing with someone, a guy from the sounds of it, but Dean can’t quite make out the words. He inches toward the window, not daring to touch the doorframe. Sam probably has superhuman hearing these days, and chances are his brother has sensed him already.
“There is no more time,” the stranger’s voice is saying. The sound is deep and rough, hovering over a weirdly intense register. “The horsemen are driving across the land. Michael is considering another vessel.” The voice takes on a slightly more desperate note. “Sam, what I have done … even just speaking with you is grounds for being cast from Heaven. You and your brother - “
Sam shifts and Dean ducks closer to the window’s edge to avoid being seen. Sam’s voice is flat and leaves no room for argument.
“Dean just got back,” Sam hisses coldly. “I’m grateful for your intel, I am. But I’m not throwing him right back in before he’s ready just because your brothers can’t keep it in their pants!”
The voice hesitates. “I regret your involvement, perhaps more than you know.” Then it grows stronger, as if gaining conviction. “War has risen. He rides East, approaching Colorado.”
“How do we stop him?”
The stranger doesn’t answer.
Dean pulls up to the window frame, trying to see the strange man. Sam’s broad shoulders block any chance of a glimpse of the stranger, who is standing just out of Dean’s line of sight.
“One more thing,” the stranger says. There is a long pause and then he adds, “There are still powerful demons helping to advance Lucifer’s plans. Your brother’s mentor is among them.”
A chill runs through Dean. Alastair is number one on his list of demons that he would rather not run into, and for good reason. On the other hand … taking him out would be the sweetest kind of revenge. He can even think of a few ways to make it last forever.
Sam’s hands curl into fists, and Dean feels his brother’s power flare out, boiling with anger as Sam has similar thoughts.
“We have not been able to locate him. Perhaps you can.”
Sam answers instantly. “It’s done.”
There is a ripple of electricity in the air, and Dean yelps in spite of himself, pulling his hand away from the metal window frame. The shocking sensation dulls quickly into an annoying ache. He freezes, holding his sore hand in the other, and listens.
The door cracks open and Sam sticks his head out. “You know, your car makes a lot of noise.”
Dean shakes out his hand, shrugging nonchalantly.
“You’ve never been a good eavesdropper,” Sam adds.
“Tell that to the Berkley twins,” Dean says, grinning widely.
Sam laughs, but he doesn’t smile. “Get in here. We need to talk.”
Dean follows, taking a seat on the nearest bed. “Who was that?”
“He’s a contact, and I need you to stay away from him,” Sam answers.
Dean grins. “Aw, Sammy, I never figured you for the jealous type. Come on, I won’t try to steal your boyfriend.”
Sam fixes Dean with a flat stare, dead serious, and Dean’s grin falters. “He’s an angel.”
“Oh,” Dean mumbles. He thinks back to what he overheard, and he decides to start with the least daunting prospect the angel had laid out for Sam. “So … War. As in the horseman?”
Sam sighs. “Pretty much. Guess we gotta check it out.”
Dean waits for Sam to elaborate, but he only starts unpacking a change of clothes from his bag, subject closed. “You’re serious. War. Just the two of us.”
Sam nods tightly. “Yep. “
Dean’s throat goes dry at Sam’s don’t-ask tone. He asks anyway. “What about Bobby, what about El-“
Sam slashes his hand through the air like a blade. “Forget Bobby. We got nobody but us, Dean. Nobody.”
Sam takes his change of clothes into the bathroom and starts the water running. Dean stretches out on his bed and tries not to imagine the sounds their voices probably made when they died.
~*~
The scene in Colorado is a massacre. In the midst of all the wreckage, a cherry red Mustang gleams in the afternoon sun. Dean parks the Impala next to her, and Sam nods his grim approval. “Think he’s still here?” Dean asks.
Sam closes his eyes for a second, then smiles. A chill touches Dean, light like the feather touch of spider’s feet. When Sam opens his eyes again, they are solid black. “Absolutely.”
They split up, picking their separate ways across bodies broken and bleeding out into the dirt and grass and skirting the burnt-out husks of cars. Distant gunfire echoes down the street from an old white-planked two story, and Dean heads that way. An overturned baby carriage and some stuffed kid’s toys are strewn around the lawn next door. Blood smears stain the asphalt where somebody was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Suddenly the noises stop, plunging him into a dead zone.
“That your car back there?”
Dean spins around. A man with peppered grey hair in a slick business suit is standing behind him, cleaning his glasses on the edge of his tie. Smoke from a burning hardware store forms a wall for him to lean against. “You’re War,” Dean accuses. The man seems to be made up of straining, mutilated corpses and held together with ashes, the blaze of destructive fire spitting out hatred where his eyes should be. Dean’s vision stutters and blurs.
The horseman sighs dramatically. “Always late, my siblings. Think they have all the time in the world.”
The horseman’s voice is made of chopper blades and gunfire, tinged with women and children screaming. Everything seems washed in a red haze. Dean touches his cheek with his fingertips and pulls them away to find them stained with blood. The horseman tilts his head. “I saw that car of yours and I thought, vintage makes sense. Too bad. Hoped you were my brother.”
Dean drops his gaze away and blinks to clear his eyes, clear his head. “What did you do to this town,” he growls.
“Who, me? Next to nothing. You know, people don’t really need a reason to kill each other. I’m Jell-O shots at a party, pal. All I do is remove inhibitions.” He licks his lips and laughs, a rolling, grating sound. “Although, in your case…”
War raises his hand and twists the ring on his finger, a smug grin on his human face like a salesman who just sold his first junk car to an unsuspecting teenager. War’s true form shrinks and fades away, leaving just the salt-and-pepper haired man behind. “Can you see me now?” The human host’s smile is wolfish, all pointed teeth. “Got a lot of friends that are lookin’ for you, kiddo.”
The red haze fades, leaving only a dull ache behind. Dean rubs his eyes with one knuckle and flicks the horseman off with his free hand. “Screw you, buddy,” he reiterates, “I’m nobody’s puppet.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Where’s your brother, Dean?”
A swift shadow reaches out from the fog and encircles the horseman. “I’m right here,” Sam hisses, and he twists War’s arm behind his back and pulls with the knife. War vanishes in a burst of flames, and when the air clears, the black that Dean had seen inside Sam’s eyes is gone.
Sam holds out his hand and Dean walks over for closer inspection. War’s ring is a simple band of yellow gold, and Dean grins. “So … side trip to Mount Doom?”
Sam regards the ring thoughtfully before dropping it into his pocket. “You’re bleeding.” Sam swipes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, and it comes away red. “What happened?”
“Dude was an eyeful,” Dean waves him off. “It’s no big deal.”
Sam frowns. “You could see him?”
Dean blinks again, but the red haze and dark spots in his vision don’t clear. “It’s fine,” he answers honestly, “doesn’t even hurt.”
Sam purses his lips, but seems to think better of arguing. Instead, he points to the house in the distance. “Come on. Maybe there are survivors.”
~*~
Dean rounds the hallway corner into a sun room full of shattered glass. His eyes see the boots first, then the slim-cut jeans, then the pale hand still wrapped around the stock of a 12 gauge. His breath catches in his throat.
“Dammit, Jo.”
She’s sitting against the wall as if she could just be asleep. Dean wants to believe that, but the blood tells him different. It wasn’t a demon that killed her; it was a bullet, high caliber, probably from the same rifle that broke the window. Dean kneels down on one knee and tilts her face towards the fading stream of sunlight glittering off the jagged shards left behind. Her soft hair falls back uncovering her sightless, staring eyes.
“They had a sniper,” Dean whispers. It’s almost as if she’s looking at him, listening. There is something about her that’s different from before. He realizes with a touch of pride that it’s the absence of fear. He can almost see the hunter she became.
Slow footsteps approach from behind, signaling the end of his recon. Dean eases the shotgun from Jo’s hand and pushes it away. Then he pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead in a brief farewell before laying her down on the floor. He brushes her hair down across her shoulders, but he pauses before shutting her eyes.
He wants to say he’s sorry, but he’s not. Cradled in the afternoon glow, Jo is the perfect image of a fallen warrior; a fierce opponent who died as she lived, with passion and purpose. Jo had taken the path Dean always planned to tread, fighting to the end to protect the ones she loved before taking a reaper’s hand and leaving the battlefield for good.
Dean’s palm hovers uncertainly over her staring eyes as he tries to read her last thoughts. Inexplicably, he wishes she had a message for him. Suddenly he wants to keep something of hers, something to carry her with him always. Something to remind him of the kind of man he used to be; of what it meant to be a hunter - a human.
Dean’s hovering hand comes to rest on her cheek, and he runs his thumb across the high bone beneath her fixed stare.
Sam enters the room and comes to a stop behind his brother, resting a light hand on his shoulder. Dean can sense Sam nodding his silent understanding. There is a dull clatter on the wood floor next to Dean, and he can see a wobbling handle out of the corner of his eye. “Rufus is dead. Meet me back at the car when you’re ready.” Sam squeezes Dean’s shoulder, then takes his hand away. “You know, she always did have eyes for you.”
Dean rips his gaze away from Jo, but Sam is already pushing past them and in three steps he rounds the corner, leaving Dean alone.
Dean reaches for the knife, and it fits perfectly in his hand. The shards of glass reflect his face in multi-faceted pictures, a window to what is left of his soul, tiny shimmering snapshots of what he has become. The images are frightening, dark and swimming with tainted blood.
Dean carves for himself innocent eyes, eyes that have never seen the fires of Hell. It’s a start.
Chapter 5: Death and Taxes