Beneath Every Layer of Skin - V
They're sitting around the table in Rufus's cabin, and all three of them have a beer. Inias pulls a jacket around himself tightly, his excuse that he feels more while alone in a vessel.
“What're the odds of him playing one last trick? It's suspicious.” Jody asks. As soon as Inias had zapped them back into the cabin, she'd made Bobby sit down and tell them about his encounter with Gabriel as a trickster, and then what Sam and Dean had told him about their later encounters. “What I heard, it sounds like his MO.”
“Gabriel was always light hearted,” Inias puts in, shocked by the tales of Gabriel's cruelty. “He would hide many things from the younger members of the garrison, but he never harmed us.”
“Yeah, just humans.”
Inias takes a sip of his beer and sneers just a little at the taste. “I do not think he was lying this time. This is the world at stake, and he chose the world, in the end.”
“So what do you think he meant by the 'world tree'?” Jody asks.
“That's relatively easy - She, Kali, knew him as Loki, right? That's Norse mythology. Their trickster god. The World Tree is kinda like their universe theory, if I remember correctly - brushed up on some mythology after we ran into a few gods over the years, never hurts to be prepared,” Bobby says gruffly. “But actually finding the tree that contains the universe, a long gone one at that, I have no idea how in the hell we're gonna do that, seein' as it makes no sense.”
“A tree does not contain the universe. That would be impos-” Inias begins.
“Yeah, I know. So what was he talkin' about?”
“Maybe,” Jody says, cupping her hands beneath her chin. “it's a bit more simple than that. Like it was a place, or a painting, or a I-don't-know-what. Could be a pub in Norway. I think it's wortha shot.”
Bobby sighs. “This whole operation seems to be runnin' on hints and maybes. Fine. Let's hit the books.”
It's the third day without water and Sam can't walk a foot further. They're out in the open, exposed to the cold and the ash, but he can't move.
“Sam, c'mon. Gotta get up,” Dean begs weakly, his lips cracked and bloodless, skin stretched tight.
“I'm so tired,” Sam mumbles, clutching onto Dean's jacket. The skin of his leg is hot and red around the claw marks, but they have nothing to clean it with.
“Yeah, I know. I know. Me too. But we gotta find water.”
“There is no water,” Sam says, his voice terribly clear. “Dean, please, just...” Sam pulls Dean closer, burying his nose into the crook of his dirty neck.
“No,” Dean says, “Fuck this.” He stands, pulling the knife from his belt with a scraped and clenched fist. “You sons of bitches!” He screams into the fog. “I'm done. We're done. So come and fucking get me!"
They haven't dared to raise their voices for the time they've been there. The monsters that had slipped into their piece of the world would find them whenever they did, but now Dean welcomed them. Sam lies sprawled on the ground, eyes unfocused.
“Come here, come meet me, you stupid fucking bastard. You want us dead, so what are you waiting for?”
“Still waiting for you to remember our Mother,” comes Castiel's voice from just beyond Dean's realm of vision.
“I don't give a shit about your mother!” Dean shouts, not daring to step away from in front of Sam's weak form.
“Tsk,” says Castiel's voice. “Temper.” Castiel emerges from the shadows, dressed as Castiel had always been as an angel, askew tie flapping despite the lack of breeze. Black blood creates a sizzling trail behind him, and Dean's dehydrated knees shake.
“Ugly as you are, I'd say your mother was blind.”
The leviathans in Castiel's body shrug. “Both God and Eve created things of beauty. It's just a matter of perspective, little boy. Look, we find you hideous - piteous. God was mistaken when it came to his little ants. Oh, but, angels.” The thing runs its hands over Castiel's chest. “Pretty little, tasty little angels.”
“Eve? Eve was your mother?” Dean laughs, half maddened. “Eve went down easier than your average monster,” Dean says, laughing and then coughing on his dry mouth. “If that's all I got to expect, you worms will be so much easier.”
The leviathans sneered. “We know you, Winchesters. We know you how to ruin you. We know you through each and every thing you've killed, because you've sent them all to us, and they are all outside, waiting for their pound of your flesh.” A howl sounds nearby. “Here is one now! Do you think your little brother can withstand it, do you think your little Sam can even -” The leviathan chokes on their words. Their eyes go wide, the pupils shrinking, blue once more showing in the outline of their eyes. “No, you don't, little morsel. No, no. No saving them this time, you and your kin have interfered enough.”
Dean watches the leviathans carefully. They shudder and twitch, hands clawing at Castiel's neck. “Cas?”
Sam stirs just so behind Dean, though he sounds as if he's dreaming. “Cas is here?”
They go ignored. “Do you think you can beat us little one? Michael is gone, Gabriel is dead, no Michael sword to beat us down. You're just their weak, tasty little brother.”
“Cas!” Dean shouts.
Castiel shudders and his eyes meet Dean's, striking and clear, clear blue. He stretches out a tar covered hand. “Dean. Sam.” His hand stretches to the sky and, in a muffled rustle of feathers, he vanishes.
“No!” Dean screams. “Goddamnit, Cas, get your ass back here!” The wind whistles once, but Castiel does not reappear.
“Dean,” Sam moans from behind him. His eyes are closed, his long limbs folded against his body. “Water.”
Dean slowly walks over to and kneels with his brother, face scrunched with pain. He rubs a filthy hand over his exhausted eyes and coughs with his bone dry throat. “I know, Sammy, I know, you're gonna... you're gonna get some water soon.”
“No, Dean,” Sam mumbles. His eyes open, a little clearer than they were before. “Rainin'.”
Small sprinkles alight on Sam's upturned face, trailing over his cheeks and dotting his hair like dew. Dean looks up, disbelieving, and laughs, loud, honest to god, laughs. He removes his leather jacket and holds it up to the sky to collect the water, not even minding the freezing cold that bites at his bare chest. “Oh my God, that- That glorious son of a bitch. Sam, open your mouth.”
“I bet he thought he was being clever,” Bobby snipped on the second day. “If we didn't already know Dean was Michael's sword, that last hint would have been infuriatin'. As it is with the tree thing I want to bring him back, just so I can kill him myself.”
Inias scowls at him, thick brows furrowed. “We have leads at least.”
“Only about five hundred. Sacred goddamned Norse trees.”
“And how is Dean supposed to slay the beast when we have no clue where he's trapped, and if he's even alive still?” Jody asks. Lines from the sleepless nights are beginning to creep around her eyes.
“Oh, he's alive.” Bobby says firmly. “Not much seems to be able to keep these boys dead. The problem is timing. Communication. A bunch of junk, but I have no doubt they're still kickin'.”
Jody shrugs. “If only the rest of us were so lucky.”
“If we just had a tighter location,” Inias laments. “I could search easily. The horn emits a tone that only angels can hear- I have not heard it for a millenia, but I could never forget it.”
“And Europe is too wide a swath for ya?” Bobby asks.
Inias nods silently. “I am nowhere near as fast as many of my siblings, not even as swift as my sister Hester, who is of the same rank.” Inias scratches his face, shamefaced. “And slower now, I think. Heaven's power is fading. In me... and in the garrison.” Bobby pats him slowly, consoling.
“But a city is not too wide right?” Jody says, looking at her laptop with a grin.
Inias shakes his head.
“Gabriel seems like the kind to not just want some random little sacred tree. But ones renowned for their beauty, remembered even now that they're 'long gone', those sound about right, yeah?” Inias leans over and Jody smiles wide. “Uppsala or Hesse?”
The rain pours on for four days and four nights. There's no lack for water, no more of the deadly thirst, but the hunger becomes ever present, something gnawing on the half dead grass that grows between the ash ridden cracks of the waste does not ease. Sam's cut gets cleaned, but the skin is still red and unhappy, and constant shivers plague them both when the rain threatens to turn sleet. They find a burnt out old yellow house to take refuge in on the third day. Sam doesn't remember it, he's only seen the house after it had been rebuilt, but Dean remembers his first four years there. He doesn't tell Sam.
There's some dirty, but whole clothes scattered in the unruined rooms, with which Dean gladly layers after days with nothing but his jacket to keep out the biting cold. Sam replaces his blood stained jeans with a pair just a bit too short and binds his leg with fabric from a woman's night dress. They find unspoiled canned goods in the kitchen, and celebrate with peaches and green beans and Dean almost smiles when he wipes away fruit juice from Sam's upper lip.
“We need a plan,” Sam says, voice stronger than it's been for some time. He digs into a can of beans they'd been planning to save, but Dean doesn't stop him. “We can't just wander around in the dark, hoping for Cas to overpower the leviathans long enough to save our asses again. We almost died, and you know, I don't think we can get out of it, this time. We have to save him.”
Dean nods, lacing his fingers before his mouth. “You... were right. Cas is still in there somewhere. With a bit more digging, we can get all the way down to him. And with the three of us, there's no way we won't bust out of here.” The cockiness in Dean's voice is forced, but less than before.
“Dean,” Sam replies slowly, “I have no doubt about you and Cas, but, you have to look at the facts.”
“No. Don't even start.”
“Dean, listen. Do you think I want - I'm...” He exhales. “My hallucinations are getting worse. Worse than they already were. That I'm even lucid right now is...” he says, trailing off. “And don't try to pretend you think my leg is fine. I'm a risk to you, Dean.”
“A risk I'm willing to take.” Dean says stonily.
Sam stares at Dean for a long moment, before his eyes slide down and linger on Dean's lips. “And if I get us all killed?”
“Then we go out together. Okay?”
Sam swallows, scooting the half eaten can of beans over to Dean. “Okay.”
“Okay. We leave as soon as the rain stops, and we find our angel.”
“An empty goddamned field,” Bobby snips.
“It's here,” Inias insists. “I'd know that sound anywhere.”
“According to the site I found, there used to be a temple here, and the tree was famous for leagues around. Sacrifices in the big numbers. Sounded like this guy's deal.” Jody shrugged and pushed her hair behind her ear, then rubbing her hands together and blowing on them. “Can we get the horn and go? Sweden is pretty damn cold in October.”
Inias stalked quickly up the nearest hill, hopping over a little wooden fence. A man from the little house across the tiny dirt road eyed them suspiciously. “Close by, closer,” he muttered to himself. “Here!” Inias holds out a hand and in a moment an old battered horn appears in his fist.
“That's the horn of truth?” Jody laughs. It looks to be about the size of a child's horn, and it's rusted.
“As it appears to your eyes, yes,” Inias retorts, blue eyes narrowing.
“How sure are you?” Bobby asks. “Cause we need to be sure.”
Inias raises an eyebrow, then puts the horn to his lips. It emits a tinny squeak.
Jody laughs. “Okay, so what did it do?”
“How do you feel about Bobby?” Inias asks, almost smug looking.
“I like you quite a bit,” Jody says, then squeaks and covers her mouth. “I thought you were an old drunk for a long time, but you're really pretty charming,” she says to Bobby, more muffled this time.
Bobby scratches the back of his head, before his mouth starts to babble as well. “I like you, because you don't put up with my bullshit.” Bobby goes red in the face. “Alright, angel, put the damn thing away.”
Inias watches with a small smirk. Bobby and Jody are flush with the cold and Jody pulls her leather jacket tighter around herself.
“If we survive this leviathan thing, I'm gonna take you out for dinner, alright?” Jody says, with a sheepish smile.
“Sure,” Bobby replies, eyebrows furrowed.
“I think the two of you are alright, for humans,” Inias says. matter-of-factly. He tucks the horn into the pocket of his jeans, takes their hands, and zaps them back to Rufus's cabin.
Their childhood home holds more usable things than any building they've stumbled across. Food, clothes, they even manage to make a pair of rucksacks, from on old half burned leather jacket and collect rain water in tupperware containers salvaged from the kitchen. Sam wonders aloud why the place is so much better preserved than any others, and Dean wonders if ghosts too go to Purgatory.
When the first deluge of rain stops, they take to the streets, deadly quiet and cautious, but occasionally daring to call out Castiel's name. The only answer is usually in howls, and they hurry on silently for some time afterward.
The rain comes and goes after that, as do Sam's hallucinations. His limp is getting severe, and there's a terrible smell emitting from the bandages on his thigh, no matter how much Dean tries to clean them with alcohol salvaged from the house they’d crouched in. By the third day of such travel, Dean has to carry Sam more often than he can keep himself up.
Flickers of Castiel appear in the corners of their eyes, sometimes, but no matter how they follow him, they’re always one step behind. Sam sees him more often than Dean, though they’re unsure whether he’s actually seeing him or not. His hallucinations have gotten bad enough that he spends half of the fourth day screaming. Dean manages to fight off some piss poor vamps, as starved and inhuman looking as everything in purgatory, with the weapons they had fashioned out of hard steel pipes and kitchen knives, until Sam regains himself.
“You’re fine, see, like I’ve been tellin’ you, you’re fine.” Sam cringes away from Dean’s unintended harsh tone. Dean wipes the vamp blood from his blades, content that their headless corpses will stay corpses until nightfall.
“Sorry.”
“What was it this time?”
Sam mutters something indistinct, and buries his head miserably in his hands. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”
“C’mon. It won’t be too much longer. Cas, Cas is fighting in there. You've gotta fight too. Soon, we’re gonna get him and get out and the lot of us are gonna kick another apocalypse's ass."
“Dean, I just almost you killed!”
“Yeah, well, you’re all I got.”
“You’d be better off leaving me here. You can find Cas, and then the two of you-”
“I don’t wanna hear this.”
“But you've got to face the truth, sometime. My head, my leg- I’m as good as dead.”
“Oh, screw you. You're gonna get us killed because you gave up, not because Lucifer's screwin' with your head.” Dean turns away, running a hand over his face, perfectly content to start ignoring his brother, but a howl sounds nearby, far too close.
“That doesn't sound like a wolf…” Sam whispers.
The howls sound more like those of a pack of dogs, approaching through the dust and dark. “Shit,” Dean says, angling back his piece of pipe, preparing to fight. “We’ll talk about this later,” he hisses. A great hunched beast emerges into view, followed by another, and another, standing as tall as Dean's chest even on all fours. Vaguely dog like in shaped, their hulking chests taper into starved corpse thin middles, with claws as long as Sam's fingers and corded exposed muscles unprotected by the torn flesh hanging in strips off their forms. Rusted nails peek out of their marred and matter fur.
Dean visibly goes several shades lighter, and his hand drops.
“What are those?” Sam asks, backing up as quickly as his mangled leg will allow, his broken steel bar still raised and ready. The nearest thing snarls, blood red eyes fixed on him. “Dean, I've never seen those before.”
“I have,” Dean chokes out. “Run!”
He grabs Sam's hand, dragging him at a pace he can't match, though Sam keeps on his feet even as blood begins to pump through his bandages. The first beast catches up with them and Dean turns while still running to deliver a powerful crack to its skull. It whimpers with pain and falls to the ground and Sam remembers where he has heard that sort of growling before.
“Are - those - gah - hell hounds?!” Dean's pale face is answer enough. They're gaining a small lead, but not for long. They turn the corner and without warning Dean drags him out of sight into a burnt out hardware store, pressing him hard against the wall, with his body hovering over him and a grimy hand covering his mouth. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh is nearly overpowering, and Sam and Dean barely breathe. Within seconds the hell hounds pass by, seemingly without smelling them, but they don't dare to move until their barking fades into the distance.
“Oh my God,” Dean finally says. “Those are some bastards I never wanna play with again.” He releases Sam's mouth, and they cough from the scent. “Ugh, it smells terrible in - ” Dean cuts off abruptly. “Jesus Christ. Let's get out of here.” They've unwittingly stumbled into a place from their past once more. Nails litter what remains of the walls much like they had stuck out of the hell hounds' flesh.
“This is where…” Sam covers his mouth. He closes his eyes, groaning.
“C'mon," Dean says, gathering their makeshift rucksacks. "Let's get before those hounds come back around.”
Sam opens his eyes, and then shouts. “Dean, behind you!”
“Wha-” In a flash, the hell hound drags its claws down the back of Dean's legs before he can even turn around. He falls to his knees and the hound slices at his back until he's flat on the ground, screaming. Blood oozes and spurts from the rents in his body, hands outstretched towards Sam. “Sammy!” He screams. The hell hound takes a bite out of the flesh of Dean's back, chewing, swallowing. “Sammy, please!”
Sam howls and tries to reach Dean, but there are hands on him, pulling him back, pinning him back, growing slowly tighter around his chest, until he can’t breathe. Dean gurgles blood.
A hand flies at his face, smacking him harshly, and Sam blinks the tears of fear from his eyes. Dean is before him, destroyed. He should be a corpse, no one can lose that much blood and survive. “Sam, you have to be quiet!” Dean whispers harshly. Claw marks rent his face in half.
Sam kisses him just to stop looking at all the blood. Dean is warm and real and dry under his hands, cracked but plush lips slotting against his, heart beating and still alive. Sam pulls him into his arms, fingers tracing down his back. With his eyes closed, he can feel Dean's skin through his shirt, unbroken and so, so warm. A distant thought tells him that it’s wrong, but all he wants - needs is to remember Dean is alive. For a long moment, they stand like this, and Dean doesn’t move at all until he shoves him.
“Sam, what the hell are you doing?”
Sam falls back against the wall, jarring his elbows against one of the nails stuck in the plaster. Dean's backing away, face twisted in some unrecognizable emotion. He can’t place Dean’s face at all. “Dean...”
“We can't do this, Sam, What is wrong with you?” Dean says, cupping his face in his hands groaning. demands, wiping his mouth with his filthy sleeve, streaking it with grime.
“Dean, I just-”
“We just can't. God, we're so... You just thought that was okay?”
Sam clutches his head. There's a pounding in his temples - his skull feels as though it's about to split open at the seams. The world pulses around him, seems closer and smaller, as though he’s being shut away. “I'm so sorry.” Lucifer steps into his line of sight, blocking Dean from view.
“See what you've done?” Lucifer says. “See what sort of sick twisted psycho you really are? Your own brother, not content with lusting after an angel.” He smiles and steps to the side, and Sam can see Dean again. His eyes are averted, his shoulders slumped teeth are bared.
“No, don't... Never touch me again. Don't even look at me, you god damned freak. You're not my brother. You're just a monster.” He scrubs a limp hand over his face pushes Sam against the wall harder. “Look, we... Don't look at me!” The ash drifts down between them through the open ceiling.
Slowly, Sam begins to laugh, though at first it sounds more like a whimper.
“Sam, we're gonna talk about this, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, YOU'VE ALWAYS DRAGGED US DOWN, Sam, you're my brother, I SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOU DEAD, we're gonna talk about this later, okay? I SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU MYSELF. Are you alright? Sammy, what’s wrong, can you hear me? I SHOULD HAVE SLIT LET YOU DIE, YOU USELESS, SICK FUCK.”
“See,” Sam says. “See what you are?” Sam laughs harder. “You are ruiner, you are a destroyer. You are mine, because no one else would have your filth.” Sam's overlong hair shadows his face.
“Sam? What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asks, his voice warbled and indistinct to Sam's ears. He takes a step forward, hands outstretched.
“Sam?” Sam echoes.
“Sam!” Dean's hands squeeze his shoulders and
Dean is thrown back against the opposite wall, something in his shoulder crunching with the force of the impact.
The air in the destroyed building pulsates, plaster crumbling from the walls in chunks. Sam laughs. “Sammy's not home.”
Dean groans, fresh bruises blooming along his back. “What d’you-- who the hell are you then?”
“Don't you recognize me Dean-o?” Sam says, standing up tall and imposing. “Feels so good to stretch my legs, you know? I've been chipping away in there for aaaages.” His image starts to bleed color, grasping out towards him, bulging, seeping, and Dean’s pressed tightly against the wall before he even registers the sight, feeling little tugs like thorns snatching on the legs of his well-worn denim jeans and at the thick skin of his forearms.
Sam, or the image of Sam, stutters before him like a broken recording, a cacophony of visions dancing before him- Sam screaming, with blood on his mouth, Sam, peaceful, with a bullet hole through his head, Sam with deep, dark eyes blacker than midnight- before it settles on his brother dressed in impeccable white. It doesn't completely stop flickering- the face can't seem to stop, from rage, to calm, to manic, screaming laughter- but the voice that issues forth is even.
Dean knows it, from the deepest part of his nightmares.
“How nice to see you, Dean.” There's arrogance practically dripping off the words and onto the stained pavement. “I knew I'd see you again.”
Dean's fists clench, and an uncontrollable tremble shudders through his frame.
The Devil smirks.
“You know, it's kind of funny. You were so sure I was just Sammy losing it. So ready to think something else was wrong with your little brother.”
Dean's teeth grind to the point of pain, a little blood escaping his clenched fists where his nails have dug in. “You're locked up down below.” Another pulse knocks Ruby's knife out of his sneaking hand and presses him even tighter against the wall.
Lucifer giggles, though for a split second his face flickers into something like agony. “I have a theory about you, Dean. You're afraid, Dean. You're afraid of Sam, sure, but you're more afraid that Sam is only a reflection of you. That you're the true monster. And maybe you are. Do you covet your little brother Dean? Or that useless little angel? I've seen the way you look at them, Dean. Definitely not in holy ways. Do you want to fuck them or rip them apart?”
“Where are they?” Dean grinds out. The pressure pushing him against the wall increases and a bit of plaster cracks and tumbles to the ground.
Lucifer's body flickers and it's Sam as he was, in his faded jeans and flannel shirt. He's screaming, pounding at some invisible barrier, eyes boring right into and through Dean. The image is barely there for a second before calming again to the white clad imitation. “Are you blind? Sammy’s right here. What would you want with them anyway? What use do you have for a crazy little brother- definitely crazy by the way, I made sure of that, so that much is true- and a possessed angel who doesn't even remember who he was? Really, you should just get the hell out of Dodge, leave behind your useless luggage. You could probably make it out alone, you know.” An apple appears in his hand, but when he takes a bite the inside appears rotten. “Oh! I know!”
In a moment, it's Sam again, Sam unbuttoning his shirt with agonizing hesitation. His face is shamed, red and downcast, as his fingers slip to the button of his jeans.
Time seems to fast forward around the thing pretending to be his brother, and Lucifer takes several steps too close in a split second. He bends, and his fingers curl around Dean's chin.
Dean can't move any farther backward, but Lucifer's arm wraps around his neck. “Let me--!”
Lucifer wears Sam's face all wrong. The smile shows all his teeth, pulls his cheeks far too tight. “Looking at your brother like that, shame Dean.” A forked tongue slips from beneath Sam's teeth. “Oh, but he wants it. Why do you think that is Dean?”
“Shut up,” Dean cries, hands clawing uselessly at the dirty, burnt ground. “You're nothing. You're nothing but a memory.”
“Sigh. Alas, you've caught me, officer. I suppose I’ll just go away, and Sammy will be whole and healthy. Is that what you want to hear?” He stands and shrugs. “If only things worked that way. Enjoy your death, Dean.” The howling of hellhounds reappears in the distance and Sam’s twisted face looks almost as though he is mourning. “Ah, here it comes! Goodbye, Dean.” Dean falls to the ground, released.
“Sam!” Dean calls desperately, picking himself up out of the rubble and trying to crawl to his feet. The Devil walks calmly and collectedly out into the fog. “Sam!” Dean screams, running after him, but he’s already disappearing into the ash. “Sam! Oh God no.” The white suit fades away, out of sight. Howling surrounds him, and he is utterly alone. “God no, Sam."
Part Six