A dragon lives forever
But not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings
Make way for other toys.
XXXX
Trees smoldered at their huge, knotty bases, leaves curling and crackling, sending sparks of orange and red spiraling through the plumes of smoke. Cinders caught on the wind using the dry force to leap from pine to oak.
The Winchesters watched through binoculars from the Impala, windows rolled up against the smoke that was making its way down the hill toward the logging road. A herd of deer ran in front of the car, birds flew higher than the smoke in the same direction and the wind slammed into the car spraying ash so thick that the windshield wipers could barely keep up with clearing it away.
Armed with cross bows with arrows dipped in holy water and handguns and wearing fire gear swiped from the 1970's section of a local museum, the Winchesters waited for any sign that would tell them if their prey was near.
"This gear's outdated, Dad," Sam complained.
"Well, I couldn't very well steal modern equipment from a fire station, Sam. It would put lives at risk, and besides, every piece of equipment will be in use today," John grumbled.
Sam was about to ask what his and Dean's life meant, but he tried to put things into perspective. As much as John was a hard ass, he was right. And Sam and Dean wouldn't be going as close to the fire as firefighters would have to. He'd just have to suck up the heavy, ill-fitting turnout gear. Sam chanced one more glance at the dragon on the screen of his laptop
Twenty-year-old Dean could see the fear etched on Sam's face. Hell, if he thought he was going to be fighting a dragon, he'd be scared too. Dean tried to assure Sam that they weren't going to be fighting dragons because dragons didn't exist. Sure, the firefighters and locals whose homes had been lost to previous fires in nearby townships all swore they saw something winging through the smoke, fanning the flames and blowing further destruction down upon their town, but no one had been able to give a description, or at least seemed reluctant to describe exactly what they had seen.
"Sammy, look, I'm gonna say this one more time. Dragons don't exist, kiddo. Dad knows what he's doing. We're gonna kill this thing and get out of here."
John's best speculation based on one day's worth of research was that they were dealing with a Demon called a Black Sabbath, which Dean proclaimed was cool! But Sam disagreed, noting from his own research that Black Sabbaths usually started fires in urban centers and this one was burning forests in South Dakota about every forty years. Also, Black Sabbaths usually started fires on Sundays, hence the name Sabbath. Despite having pointed out any differences he found, Sam was told in no uncertain terms to leave the details to the more experienced and keep his head in the game.
"Boys, if this thing can really fly like the locals have said, I need Sam to be ready with the Latin for the exorcism and Dean you need to man the arrows. When the thing tries to exit whatever freaky body it has, we'll catch it in this box." John held up a metal box with binding rituals etched into the shiny surface that looked impossibly small to imprison anything, but then again, how big could a beast's soul be?
"And if we're wrong about what it is?" Sam asked, eyes going wide the minute the words left his mouth, hands flying to his face as if he could squash them back in.
John turned around to glare at Sam as Dean started talking fast and loud about the suddenly very interesting symbols etched on the box still held in John's hands.
Sam swallowed, grateful for Dean's quick distraction but he shrunk a bit too, when Dean cast a sideways glance at him, brows furrowed the minute John looked away.
Just as Sam wished to be swallowed up, the car seemed to buckle a little as if being pushed down like a toy by a toddler. The moment passed as the shocks sprung back and the car rocked a bit before stilling. Dean cringed, waiting for the tires to blow or something that would indicate that the hunt was going to start with typical Winchester luck. The tires held. He breathed. After all, the Impala was his now.
That was their cue. John ordered them to put on the oxygen masks. Dean helped Sam step from the car, the tank on his back almost bigger than the sixteen year old. Sam had undergone a bit of a growth spurt but he was nowhere near big enough for this man-sized gear. The mask slipped on his face but he pushed it back up with determination, his feet slipping backwards and forwards in the huge boots. Smoke creeping under the mask tickled his nose but he shouldered his cross bow in front of him to offset the huge oxygen canister on his back.
John led the way toward the fire that blazed on the hill not looking back to see if he was followed closely by his sons. It was assumed. It was an order. Dean however did look back. Sam trudged along up the hill admirably well, considering the extra weight and bulk of the fireproof gear. Sam pushed his facemask up again and Dean called a halt, looking pissed.
"Sam! Your mask doesn't fit, why didn't you say something?" Dean cursed.
The truth was, the only checks they'd done on the equipment was to ensure they got the tanks filled at the dive-shop in a different town so as to avoid anyone noticing the tanks were stolen. The masks weren't exactly one-size fits all. Dean reached around Sam's head and hissed in frustration when he found the adjustments were already set on their smallest. He looked up the hill to tell his father that they couldn't take Sam any further but John was already far ahead of them slightly obscured in the smoke that was kicking up at more frequent intervals. Already a line of soot framed Sam's nose and eyes under the mask.
Dean took the crossbow from Sam and gave him a handgun, placing Sam's other hand over his mask.
"No cross bow for you. Hold this mask in place, Sammy, you hear me?"
Sam nodded, already feeling like dead weight in this hunt. He felt he couldn't do one thing right these days. Hell, couldn't even grow properly. Would probably be a shrimp for life if by some miracle he straightened out and learned to be the good soldier his dad wanted like Dean had done.
"Sorry, Dean," Sam mumbled from behind the thick clear facemask.
"No worries, kiddo, a little beer and cheeseburgers and you'll be as big as me someday," Dean replied, slapping him on the back and nearly knocking him over.
The smoke was getting thicker. Dean put Sam ahead of him, not wanting to lose the kid should he tumble back down the hill that was growing steeper by the minute. Sam trudged on like a trooper, breathing a bit easier now that he had a free hand to hold his mask in place. They caught up to John, perched behind a huge boulder sticking out from the hillside like a fist slamming out from the bowels of the earth. Small daisies perched in the dark black soil, all of them pointed away from the increased heat brought by the wind as if they could uproot and run away.
John motioned for the boys to put down their burdens. He wasn't without sympathy; it was just that marines usually didn't need help carrying things and their gear fit, unless they were missing a limb or something. John opened a large bottle of water and held it out to the boys. Dean took the offering and handed it to Sam first. Sam took a deep breath, let the mask slide and took a long drink, making sure there was plenty left for Dean and his father. Sweat rolled down his back and his face hurt from having to push so hard to keep the mask on. Dean winced at the red marks in Sam's heated faced, etched by black soot that strove to get under his mask should he slip up and not hang on to it.
"Look, Dad, I think maybe Sam should go back to the car," Dean said.
John looked over at his youngest, noticing only now that Sam held tightly to his mask. Sam didn't have to hear the sigh that he knew escaped John's lips. John performed the same too-little-too-late inspection of Sam's mask as Dean had, swearing loudly, not particularly at Sam but to the universe in general.
"He has one hand. He can use the gun," John decided. He opened Sam's gun, removing the bullets from the clip and dousing them in holy water.
Sam was glad he knew the Latin Exorcism by heart because there was no way he could hold his gun, the mask and a piece of paper to read from. He was unsure if it would even work against a creature that wasn't riding a human or animal but something surely invented by evil. He'd argued to no avail that the evil might be intertwined body and soul. That or it wasn't a Black Sabbath at all, which was the more likely of the two scenarios in his head. But dragons didn't exist.
When John picked his gear up he didn't need to tell the boys that break time was over. They obediently picked up their gear, Dean shouldering two cross bows and Sam his gun, his other hand firmly on the mask but still looking a little more bug-eyed than Dean liked.
Sam once again in the middle struggled to stay upright, to look tough. He'd never worn a mask like this and didn't know if the strenuous effort to pull air from the canister was normal or not. Dean and John looked fine, no strain indicated from either of them so Sam vowed to suck it up and try to concentrate on not getting winded from the exertion of carrying the extra weight of the gear. Sweat poured down his spine, tickling the small of his back and he'd give anything to scratch but he had no free hand and nothing short of a sword would penetrate the heavy coat anyway. Suck it up Winchester, he ordered himself, trying to sound like his dad in his head.
The whistling sound echoing around the damned mask from Sam's wheezing was annoying. He was glad his dad and Dean couldn't hear it; it would be just another indicator of weakness. The air this time of year under the heavy canopy of trees would have been thick and humid anyway, but coupled with the smoke that hung in an ever-thickening fog, it was almost unbearable. When Sam first put the mask on, the hiss of oxygen felt light and cool, but now it trickled, barely satisfying his need. He stopped for a minute, holding his hand up in an I'm okay gesture usually used by divers.
Dean looked back as Sam stumbled. He tried his best not to leap forward and inspect his younger brother. Sam made it clear that if John insisted that he come on these hunts, that he be treated like anyone else. Still, he moved closer to Sam, almost within reach to trip on his heels if he stopped suddenly. Dean tried in vain to glimpse Sam's face.
Sam's mask fogged up. He tried to sneak and let it up for a minute, hoping to catch the odd clean gust of air that managed to blow up from below from time to time but instead caught a lungful of soot and dirt. His mask didn't clear as he hoped. He clamped the mask back over his jaw and nose and tried to draw in a much-needed breath but the only satisfaction was a half pull of oxygen that didn't fill his lungs when he ached for more. His hair was plastered to his head under the heavy hat. He wanted to strip out of this damned gear and take his chances.
Sam tried to gauge his internal compass. He could no longer see his father through the fogged up glass of his mask. A heavy hand on his shoulder jerked him back and though he tried to ignore it, when it pulled back a second time, he was nearly knocked off balance and had to plant his feet firmly in the loosening dirt so as to not fall back down the hill and take Dean with him in the process.
This time Dean spun Sam around and swore loudly when he looked Sam in the face, or tried to anyway.
"Crap! Sam why didn't you say something? Dad!"
John didn't hear Dean, he was cresting the hill already and having found another huge boulder, he dropped his pack and began setting up to wait for the beast.
There was no buddy breathing equipment on this gear and Dean took his mask off and pressed it firmly to Sam's face, noting the slightly blue tinge to his lips. Dean coughed, pressing Sam's mask to his own face and grimacing in disgust at the impeded airflow. He followed the rubbery tubing until he saw the minute cracks at a bend in the surface from which air hissed almost imperceptibly.
Sam looked livid at being babied but his lips grew pinker by the second and his breathing evened out so he wasn't fighting for every breath.
Dean would have given anything for some duct tape, already fighting to hold his breathing steady despite the starvation of his lungs. He had no idea how Sam had stayed on his feet this long, damned kid and his pride. All Dean could find was a thick elastic band holding the bows together. He stripped it off and wound it around the creased rubber air hose slowing the escape of air considerably, but not perfectly. Dean would have traded air masks but they were attached intricately to the other gear and it would have been impossible under these conditions. He cleaned Sam's mask as best he could and took his own mask back, shoving Sam's tightly over his face and placing Sam's hand over it.
"That's it, I'm telling Dad we have to go back, you stay here," Dean ordered.
"But Dean …"
"Sammy," Dean said in that voice Sam hated because it came with a side order of that stance that belonged to their dad.
Sam wanted to get up, to make it to the crest of the hill, to prove to his dad that Dean was just being an over protective hen. Sam was convinced that if Dean just left him the hell alone, he could have trudged up the hill, but now that he sat down his body didn't want to get back up. He coughed pathetically, trying to quell the thrill of horror when black spittle droplets splattered across his mask. Humiliation rose up and added to the already intense heat inside the suit.
With the cleaner mask, the air was still clear enough to see Dean crest the hilltop safely. Sam could almost feel his dad's eyes upon him, could see the head shake, could see the hand go the hips and then to his head, forgetting that he couldn't run his hands through his hair in frustration like Sam had made him do more times than he could count.
XXXX
"Dean, tell Sam to go back to the car, then come back here and help me set up," John ordered.
Dean was a good soldier. Always did as he was told. His mouth opened and closed a few times, pondering his argument.
"Sam's not doing well," Dean stated. Before John's usual tirade about sucking it up or walking it off could begin, Dean steeled himself and went on. "His mask doesn't fit and there was a hole in it. Sam hasn't been getting enough air this whole climb. I think he's inhaled too much smoke. I think I should walk him back down the hill at least and then come back to finish this thing … Sir."
John squinted down to his youngest. Sam was climbing up the hill toward them. That's my boy, he thought with pride.
Dean stocked to the edge, preparing to scale back down and give Sam crap. John stopped him and within minutes, Sam crested the hill. John reached down a hand and pulled Sam the final few steps, slapping him hard on the back in a congratulatory manner, almost sending Sam sprawling. Sam sat down with as much control over his shaking limbs as he could manage.
Dean scanned Sam's face. Though his lips were no longer blue tinged, his cheeks were vibrant red and sweat and soot pooled around his nostrils in the mask. John lifted Sam's hand that held tightly to the mask and pulled it gently away with a loud sucking nose that pulled Sam's skin in a way that would have been funny in any other situation. John quickly wiped the glass again before setting Sam's hand firmly back in place with the mask. Dean got the water bottle and handed it to Sam, who took advantage of an updraft from the bottom of the hill of cleaner air to take a long drink. It was a mistake. He coughed and spluttered, having ignored Dean's warning to take small sips.
Sam's hand caught the blackened spittle and there was no hiding it from his father, who finally admitted Sam couldn't continue. Dean grunted in frustration, hauling Sam to his feet, prepared to take his brother down the hill when all three of them were suddenly sent to their knees by a down gust of wind from the other side of the hill. Huge leathery wings obscured what had to be an enormous body, flapping above them and screeching angrily.
The huge beast blackened the sky as it flew over them and turned, hovering, wings rippling like sails made of smoke on a tall ship holding steady in the waves of hot air currents. There was no time to put arrow to quiver.
John dropped to one knee, his gun, an extension of his hand, already cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. He shouted out a warning, not waiting to see if it was obeyed or not, trusting his sons to take his word and find cover. He waited, tense, steadying himself to take the kill shot, knowing they only had one chance at this, that if he missed, they would have to take their chances and run, and he was uncertain if Sam was capable of doing so. He breathed slowly through his mouth in an effort to steady himself all the more, the crashing of bushes ahead alerting him to the beast's whereabouts.
A crash and shout from behind him had his focus lost in an instant, his mind casting back to the words of his youngest earlier, words that spoke of caution, of flaws in their plan, of the chance there could be more than one beast. He didn't have time to berate himself though as he was barreled into with force, his body flying gracelessly through the air before coming to land, winded and confused, his head catching a glancing blow from an unforgiving tree trunk. He shook his head, willing the blurriness to abate, his efforts increasing as a scream rang out across the night sky, before everything around him fell silent. Pushing himself up onto shaky arms he shouted. "Dean! Sammy!" Half of him relieved, half of him distraught, when one of his boys answered.