Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or anything relating to it except my writing. Thank you, all.
I can feel the flames spreading through my veins, the adrenaline pumping me forward. The barking is more than terrifying and makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle, but it keeps me moving.
My mother and Sam are up ahead, guns at the ready, as is my own, but with a glance behind myself I see Dean get taken down. My voice cries out without my brain giving it permission, a scream of his name, and I stop in my tracks before I realise I have. He yells for me to keep going, but if I did that I knew he would die. We both knew it. I aim and fire in his direction, where the Hellhounds have got him locked down; hearing the gunshots Sam and Mom have stopped as well, starting back towards us. They'd be hurt; I had to get Dean and run for it. How badly was he injured? I keep firing, sending the damned dogs farther back, farther still. Why the hell do they have to be invisible?
Suddenly, I'm pulled to the asphalt, my gun slipping from my grip. My mom shouts my name from somewhere as the thing shreds my side, my legs; I can't be sure if I'm screaming as spots swim into my line of vision. Why can't I pass out already? I'm scooped into a pair of arms and, forcing my eyes open, I see it's Dean. He dashes into the nearest building, whispering to me that it'll be alright, and I can just barely nod before he sets me down against the counter on the cold floor.
Sam chains the door as mom tells me to breathe; every breath, each taken in as though I'm hyperventilating, feels like a fresh tear in my side. She sits beside me, aiding me, while the boys grab rock salt to keep out the dogs—for now, at least. Now, whereas before I wished I could float into darkness, I'm trying to keep my eyes from closing, but they feel heavy, so heavy, like I've been drugged. It reminds me of the time I had to have my appendix removed, and they gave me some drug. Count down from 10, they said. Breathe in deep.
I look up drowsily to see the boys. The blood coating my hand has made it sticky, and mom has to peel it away from the wound. Blood dribbles in a steady stream from it, and she cringes at the sight. I can only make a grunt, of which doesn't capture the intense burning I feel. That's all the pain will allow me. Mom, her eyes shining, looks up to Sam and Dean desperately; I turn to Dean. He glances away, his mouth gaping as he looks to his brother.
Dean delivers bandages; Mom fixes me up the best she can given the shitty circumstances. I stare down at my stomach in horror, shuddering, and she tells me that I'll be alright. I find it very hard to believe her but I get the feeling that she says it more for benefit than mine. I let her believe it. Sam hands her a bowl for the filthy bandages; she thanks him and he walks away to speak with Dean. Mom and I can hear them from our few feet away and stare at them. They're talking about stopping the Devil, but how can they do that with the Hellhounds trapping us in this place like rats? Mom, to make our presence known, calls Sam over for some help with me and he obliges; Dean speaks with Bobby over a radio he set up.
I close my eyes for a moment, refusing to look at my injury, and then open them again so I can see Dean. He speaks in hushed tones—I think I hear my name, but all my perceptions have been screwed over—and glances at me from time to time. I keep my gaze trained on him for a while, then look away. Mom stands and goes to talk to Bobby; I stay seated, because really, what choice do I have? I feel worse than useless, and the searing pain just won't quit.
The boys have found out where Lucifer and the Colt are; I hear them talking. Dean says that before they can do anything they have to get me and Mom to safety. It's ridiculous, and even Sam says it won't be easy. Dean suggests something I can't make out and his brother turns to go. An idea blossoms in my mind, and I know what I have to do.
"Stop," I manage to eek out, then louder, "Guys, stop," They do. I take in a shaky breath. Mom looks worriedly between me and them. I ask them to be realistic about our situation, and at that, they approach me. I try to move my legs, to no avail, and I say, "I can't move my legs. I can't be moved. My guts are being held in by an ace bandage. We gotta—" I swallow; my throat feels stuffed with sand. "We gotta get our priorities straight here." They exchange a look before turning back to me.
"Number one," I go on, "I'm not going anywhere." My mother tells me stop talking that way, and I wish I could raise my voice. "Mom. I can't fight," I tell her, as though she weren't already aware of this. I can hardly able to keep my eyelids from slipping shut. "I can't walk. But I can do something." Mom averts her eyes. "We got propane, wiring, rock salt, iron nails; everything we need."
Sam gives me a curious look, while I can see Dean has already connected the dots in his own mind. "Everything we need?" Sam inquires. I tell him that we can build a bomb, and his brother immediately steps forward.
"No. Jo, no," Dean says. I want to tell him that it isn't the time to be protective, but I don't.
"You got another plan?" He glances away. I repeat myself, "You got any other plan? Those are Hellhounds out there, Dean. They've got all our scents. Those bitches will never stop coming after you." Is he blind? Can't he see that I'm begging him to let me save him, to save them all? After a few moments, I continue, "We let the dogs in, you guys hit the roof, make a break for the building next over and I can—wait here with my finger on the button." I manage a smile. "Rip those mutts a new one. Or at least get you a few minutes' head start anyway."
When my mom speaks, I look to her; she tells me that she won't let me do this. She appears ready to cry and I wish she wouldn't. "This is why we're here, right?" I say. She shakes her head in denial. "If I can get us a shot on the Devil…" I train my eyes on Dean, because I know he'll listen tht elogic of what I'm proposing. He stares down at me with his piercing green gaze. "Dean, we have to take it."
"No!" Mom looks to him, Dean back at her. "That's not—"
"Mom," I say. She looks at me, her lip quivering. "This might literally be your last chance to treat me like an adult? Might want to take it." She starts to cry, her head bowing, and I turn to Dean for a moment before looking back to my mom. I nod, trying to smile when she nods in agreement, a trembling smile on her lips.
"You heard her," she tells the boys. "Get to work."
While the boys and mom set everything up I sit still, trying to keep my tears from falling. I think about my father, and know that he'd be proud of me. I'm dying a hunter's death—a death for our cause, for my friends. My family. Despite my want to cry, I breathe slowly in, out, in, out, a foolish attempt at calming my nerves. I watch Dean and Sam work, my eyes lingering on Dean. I realize with a pang that his whole 'last night on earth' speech was actually turning out to be true.
A half hour of scurrying around passes by. Sam is with me and holding my hand in his own, covering both with his other. He lets go slowly and lightly touches my shoulder before standing. Our goodbye.
Dean comes next, wiring trailing behind him towards the front of the store. He holds the detonator in hand as he kneels beside me. "This is it," he tells me, in a low, quiet tone. I smile at him the best I can manage, and he says, "See you on the other side." I try to smile but I can tell that it's wavering. "Probably sooner than later," he adds.
I reply, "Make it later."
He moves my rifle, setting the button into my palm and clasping his hands around mine. We both have so much to say, but no time to get the words out, to even find them. Even if we did, it would be too painful to work out. He stares at our hands for a moment, then looks up to me. I stare back at him, and our smiles appear to be more of a grimace.
He lets go of my hand and leans forward, lifting his hands to cup my neck in them. He kisses my forehead, lingering, and I press my eyes shut to remember the sensation in my mind, for whatever is to come. Even more so now the tears want to escape. He lowers his head and his eyes look into mine. Who would've thought that we'd end up here? I swallow once more, sure of what he wants permission to do. I say nothing, but my consent is clear.
He sits forward again and presses his lips to mine, the lips I'd thought about, against my will, many times before, never believing that I'd ever have the chance to kiss them. And now, when I do, I have only minutes to live. Our foreheads press together, our eyes shut. He whispers, "Okay," and pulls back, his expression telling me how much he's hurting. He stands and I know my need for him to stay is evident on my drained face.
I close my eyes as he walks away, unable to watch him go, but open them again when I hear someone approaching. My mom. She kneels down beside me, Sam and Dean behind her, watching as she takes my hand with the detonator. She gives me a sad, encouraging smile, which I try to return, though my quick breathing has begun again. Our silent exchange is not a happy one.
"Mom, no," I whimper.
"Somebody's gotta stay and let 'em in," she reminds me. I look away, biting my lip. "Like you said, you're not movin'." I roll my head back to meet her eyes. "You got me, Jo." I smile through my watery vision. "And you're right. This is important." I nod, my expression crumpling as she looks at me. "But I will not leave you here alone."
"Dean," Sam says, and Mom interrupts, without looking back at them.
"Get goin' now, boys."
Dean's eyes flash with overwhelming emotion. This is the last time I'll see him, and Sam. "Ellen," he begins, like a warning.
"I said go," Mom repeats. The boys walk away, but before they're out of sight mom looks up at them. "And, Dean?" They stop, Dean swallowing. "Kick it in the ass. Don't miss." After a moment, and a last parting glance at me, they leave.
Mom turns back to me, laughing through a small smile. I can't help but laugh as well, though it turns quickly to crying. She moves my hair from my forehead gently, stopping when we hear breathing outside the door. Mom stands and goes to it, unwinding the chains and tossing them down to the floor a couple feet away. She breaks the salt barrier with a swish of her foot and opens the propane tanks set in front of me.
My eyes feel heavier by the second; my breathing in slow motion. My grip grows weaker on the button. I'm aware of Mom sitting next to me again, her arm around my shoulders, but the sting in my side has faded, the last of the salt water slipping from my eyes to my cheeks. I hear, as though from a distance, "I will always love you, baby," and I cannot manage a complete sentence in return. Those words are the last thing I hear before all goes dark.