Chapter twelve
Chapter Twelve
Dean Winchester stands on the brink. His dark form is silhouetted against the hunter's moon, his face a set mask of vengeful fury. His shirt is ripped and torn, but the blood dripping down his warriors frame is not his own. He carries the shining sword like a beacon of hope, but he wields it like the reaping wind of death itself. There are none with him, none of his race who would pit themselves against the damning wrath of Samael.
The demonic hordes advance hungrily upon the hunter, seeking to rend his flesh from bone, baying out their lust for his blood. At first they encircle him, coming one by one, matching skill for skill with this, their ultimate opponent. And one by one they fall, choking in pools of their own blood, crying out in anguish as they are sent back into the Pit. Sulfur flows down the sloping arena, scorching the earth, turning the grass to ash.
Never tiring, never wavering, the hunter dispatches them all as they come. His motions are swift and brutal, every stroke counting, every move serving his purpose. The demons cry out as one body in rage at the sight of their fallen comrades. They begin to advance as a whole, challenging the hunter to best them at their full numbers. They lunge, slicing at him with knives, pummeling him with their fists; trying to shred his mind with their powers. For what seems an eternity, the hunter keeps the horde at bay. Then, slowly, the blows begin to find their marks.
The lone hunter gasps as his blood begins to flow. He can feel his strength beginning to fail. The shining sword in his hands is heavy, and he struggles against the pressing mass of bodies; bodies of innocent humans who will die by his hand because they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Enough," he screams. "Enough, haven't you bastards HAD ENOUGH?" He lunges for one last rally, splitting the body of the closest demon in two from hip to shoulder. The sulfur is choking him, the tattoo on his skin burns into his heart, overloading from the attempts the monsters are making to break its protective magic.
More demons push into him, shoving with such force that his stance is broken. Finally he falls to the ground. His chest heaves for air, his muscles are slick with blood and sweat. His body is spent, but his eyes are defiant as he waits for the killing blow to fall.
He grips the sword tightly in his hands, not willing to release it, but not able to wield it anymore, either. He's in pain, but not enough. Not enough to get the job done. The demons encircle him, and he can hear their taunts, see the bloodlust in their eyes, but that's not what he's looking for. He holds his breath. The demons stop stirring almost as one body, as if held back by some unseen force. He knows it's almost time.
Not yet, not yet.
He shudders as the feel of evil, pure and strong, slides through the arena, permeating every particle of air, turning his blood to ice.
Not yet ...
At the edge of the battlefield, blood dripping from his hands, Samael moves towards the hunter. His white eyes reveal nothing, but the power comes from him in waves, the rage sets the earth below his feet on fire, his muscles clench with the strain of holding back. The demon army parts, allowing their dark master passage. His eyes fix on the hunter. He's less than 100 yards away.
Not yet.
Samael moves through the crowd, demons shrinking back from him, bowing at his feet, but he has eyes only for his adversary. 50 yards away.
Not yet.
It's all the hunter can do to breathe, the demons have surrounded him, and his only escape is through the devil himself.
30 Yards. He forces himself to meet those eyes, to look past them, to reach out with everything he has to the man who he knows would die for him. If this is the end, he thinks, so be it.
Now.
The white eyes narrow as the hunter locks his gaze, and as the chant falls from the hunter's lips, the devil smiles. Fool. Nothing the hunter can do will save him now.
~*~
As the last word dropped from his lips, everything around Dean vanished, washed away in the flood of fear and pain that overtook his mind, tearing into his every nerve. The memories assaulted him, ripping into him with more ferocity than the demons had been just moments ago. If there was ever a case for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dean was it, and dealing with it all at once was just too much.
He screamed.
Dean screamed like the scream could shake the foundations of the world, long and rough and painful, the sound of ultimate agony. In his mind he was reliving the tortures of the Pit, his body ached with the sting of the memories, his sanity tore at the seams as the whispered words he had heard there sought to drive more knives into his tender soul. His eyes burned brightly with hellfire, and Dean knew that once it had touched someone, they would never truly be free.
He could feel everything shifting, falling, and blackness clouded the edges of his vision. In his desperation he cried out one last time, green eyes seeking white ones, all of his pain and anguish projected into the one word, the one plea, his last chance.
"SAAAM!"
He felt a rumble in the ground beneath him and Dean knew, he knew that the devil was opening the earth, dragging him down to the Pit for the final time. His weakened body betrayed him, and he felt himself slipping into sweet unconsciousness. As he began to fall, he felt the shudders of the earth grow stronger, and the last thing he was aware of was that strong hands were catching him, demons seemed to be running, deep hazel eyes were seeking out his gaze, and then everything went black.
~*~
Dean came around slowly. It was still dark, and he'd been having a nightmare, and whatever hunt they'd been on must have been a bitch, because he was cut up and sore all over. He registered gentle hands shaking his shoulders. "Dean," came the voice, and he frowned, because there was something wrong with it. The shaking grew more insistent. "Dean! Please, Dean, please wake up, come on, come on," the voice chanted, and suddenly it clicked.
Sam. Sam's voice. Sam was scared. Nothing woke Dean up faster than that.
Dean's eyes flew open, and he stifled a yell as the horror of his nightmare flared into his vision, an undeniable cruel reality. He was at the edge of the field now, lying in a pile of dead leaves underneath the skeleton of a withered old tree, and beyond the rim of the basin there were demons; bodies of demons strewn across the battlefield like an A-bomb had hit the place. Not one was breathing, not one human had been left alive.
But none of that mattered, because filling up his field of vision, torn clothes and hair too long, and blood on his hands, but hazel eyes, hazel, was Sam. His Sam.
"S ... Sammy?" Something was still very wrong, he could see that. Sam whimpered, fell backwards from the crouch he'd been holding and landed roughly, bringing his hands to his temples and clutching at his head like something was in there trying to claw its way out. His whimpers turned to full-on sobs and he moaned, reaching out one bloodstained hand for his brother.
"Dean ..."
Dean was off the ground in an instant, clutching him to his heart, gripping his outstretched hand fiercely. "Sammy, shh, shh, it's ok, I got you, I'm here, it's ok," the steady cadence of words came unconsciously as his mind focused his eyes to look over Sam, to see if he was hurt, to try to assess the damage.
"Dean, he's ... in ... inside of me ..." Sam grabbed the front of Dean's shirt, pulling him down until his face was buried in the crook of Dean's neck, and he whispered, "I saw you, I heard you ... ah, I heard you scream and I used him, I used him to save you, and he's weak, I used the power, I used a lot of it, I killed the demons, and I .. I, AGHh, GOD!" Sam all but collapsed into Dean, shaking all over, tremors of pain running through his body.
Dean's blood ran cold. He shook his head. "No. No, no no, you - you listen to me, you can fight this. You can beat him. He's not possessing you, you can drive him out!" Sam shook his head. His body lurched suddenly, pulling him out of Dean's grip, and he screamed as he fell. He turned and raised his tear-filled eyes to Dean.
"No," he sobbed, and Dean's heart broke. He'd never seen him this frightened, he'd never felt this helpless. "He's a part of me now." Sam struggled to rise up on his knees, and he reached for Dean's shoulders. Dean gripped Sam's arms in response, steadying him. "Dean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but ...” His eyes gleamed with tears, and sweat poured down his face.
His lower lip trembled, and suddenly Dean was thinking of Sammy at six years old, when he'd just spilled the milk, or tripped over a lamp cord and broke the lamp, and it was all he could do to ask, "But what, Sammy?"
"You ... you have to kill him." Sam's eyes shifted quickly to the gleaming sword, lying next to Dean in the soft bed of dead leaves. Dean's eyes widened in horror.
"Sammy, no, I'd - " he started, but Sam cut him off.
"You have to, Dean. He's ... too str - AHh!" Sam curled in on himself again, collapsing into Dean, and it was way too much like Cold Oak, and Dean thought he may never breathe again.
There was no denying that Sam was losing the fight. His shaking had turned into something like a full blown seizure, and Dean could see the white slowly returning to the edges of those hazel eyes. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as Dean's death grip on denial was shattered.
He had thought ... but no, the actual words he had heard said nothing about Sam's life. Will you fight this battle, Dean Winchester, for the Lord, and for your brother's soul? Seeing Sam again had pushed away the stinging memories of Hell, at least for now, but there was no way Dean was going to let his baby brother go there, not ever. No. Way.
Dean's breath hitched in his throat and he eased Sam down onto the soft ground, placing one hand gently on his forehead, and one hand firmly over his heart. Sam's eyes fluttered open, and they were clear, and they projected everything, and Dean knew what he would have said.
Please, I'm asking you to save me.
"Dammit." He couldn't leave Sam like this. I promised. And he knew what he had to do. Sam knew it, too - saw it in his eyes, and he sighed gratefully.
"Ok, it's ok Sammy, I gotcha, relax, I'm here, I gotcha," Sam began to slowly relax under the steady fall of words. His brow furrowed in concentration, he pushed back against the pain.
"There's not much time," Sam whispered. Dean leaned in close, kneeling down until their foreheads were almost touching. He held Sam's gaze, too close for Sam to see anything else.
"I know. I'm right here. I'm not leavin' you, I'll be here, I'll be here until the time comes." Dean could feel tears welling behind his eyelids, and he shut them down. Sammy needed him. One of them had to be brave.
Sam seemed to relax even more at that, but he still looked worried. He smiled a small, wistful smile. "I'm glad you're back, Dean. I missed you. I knew you'd come find me." Tears were slipping quietly from the corners of Sam's eyes, but he seemed calm. Dean was grateful for that.
"Yeah, Sam, I always will." Dean could feel Sam's heartbeat, steady and strong, held it in his hand. He pushed away the thought of what was coming. Just be with him. Don't waste it.
"When ... after ... don't go selling your soul, ok? You just got it back. Hang on to it for me." Sam said it lightly, but Dean knew he meant it, meant it with every fiber of his being. Again, he read the unspoken words, just like Sam, just the way they'd talked best all their lives. Let me go, Dean. It's ok. Live for me, please.
Dean glanced around the field, a small, dry laugh escaping his lips. "I don't think there's anyone left who'd want to buy it, kiddo."
Sam smiled weakly, but then he winced, grabbing Dean's hand against his chest, crying out hard, eyes closing against the pain. Dean gripped back. No, I'm not ready, please, just a little while longer, oh GOD, "Sammy? Sam!"
Sam's skin heated, and the crackle of power was the only warning Dean had that his time was up. Snatching the sword from the ground, he stood over his brother, holding the tip to his chest, shaking in fear and fighting against every muscle in his body to stay, to follow through with his promise. Because it was Sam, and he'd begged Dean, and Dean promised.
And Dean always kept his promises to Sam.
Sam's eyes snapped open, and it was Samael staring back, pure white orbs gleaming up at Dean, all traces of pain gone from his body. But his voice was Sam, and his face was Sam, Sam's face, pleading with Dean, as he reached inside and pulled out old, familiar words. "What are you gonna do, Dean? Huh? Do you really think you could kill your own brother?"
Dean's face twisted with rage. I tried so hard to keep you safe. His voice channeled the pure hatred he held inside as he venomously ground out, "You're NOT Sam." Ignoring the familiar, pleading voice and the precious features that he knew better than his own, Dean looked straight into the Devil's white eyes and plunged the sword of Michael deep into the heart of evil itself.
The flash of light that followed was blinding, pure and intense, the sound like a mighty rush of wind, and Dean gripped the hilt of the sword for dear life to keep from being pushed away. The holy light sought the darkness, surrounding Samael, entrapping his essence, and it pushed inward as he writhed, tearing through him until all traces of the darkness had been extinguished. The light burst outward, sweeping the arena, and then it was gone.
Time seemed to freeze. All was quite in the battlefield, the heat of the sword was spent and the blade was cool in Dean's hands, all traces of the smell of sulfur had been wiped clean. Slowly, and with dread coursing through every vein, Dean opened his eyes.
Sammy.
The tip of the angel's sword was buried deep into the ground, the hilt was firmly grasped in Dean's trembling hands, and the blade that connected them rested clean through Sam's silent heart.
"Sammy," Everything seemed to be in slow motion as Dean fell to his knees, releasing the sword and reaching for his brother's face. Sam's hazel eyes stared back at Dean, but they didn't see him - they didn't see anything anymore.
Dean felt his mind begin to slip. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
You can't run from this. And you can't protect me.
His hands moved to the collar of Sam's shirt, gripping it tightly.
I need you to watch out for Sammy, ok?
Dean curled down over his brother's still form, pressing his face into Sam's neck, shutting out the carnage all around them.
There's gotta be a way, right? Yeah. Yeah there is.
Dean was spent completely, body, mind, and soul.
Please. I'm asking you to save me.
There was no more reason to go, no reason to fight anymore. The fight was over, and no one needed him.
No one was going to need him.
Don't be scared, Dean.
He closed his eyes, falling bonelessly against Sam, curling into him, hiding from the world.
Exhaustion dragged him under, and he knew no more.
Chapter thirteen