Sam ran his hands through his hair. It was long, dirty, probably blood-stained. He should get it cut. He knew that. There were a lot of things he should do. Unfortunately, he thought, there were very few things he could do.
"Sam Winchester?" he glanced up at the sound of his name, found himself looking at a pretty young nurse. She was holding a clipboard in her hand, of course, the same way that nurses in hospitals seemed to always do. He wondered if there was even anything on the clipboard – his dad's chart was still lying off the edge of the bed.
"Yes?" he said, clearing this throat a little. He wondered why the nurse had come to get him. They'd said he could stay with his dad as long as he wanted – visiting hours didn't apply to family. He glanced involuntarily at the gruff man laid up in the hospital bed – the machines next to him kept beeping cheerfully. He seemed fine. So why. . .
And then the thought flew through his head, belated and stupid. Dean. He stood up too quickly, the world swaying gray at the edges. The half-full coffee cup he'd been holding tilted, too, lukewarm liquid added to the other stains on his pants.
"Dean!" he said desperately. "My brother – is he"
The woman looked concerned. She bit her lower lip. She was awfully young, Sam noticed. Probably just out of school, or maybe still in it. She really was pretty. "Your brother is still in surgery," she said. Sam nodded his head, body moving in jerky movements, a marionette doll. He felt that way, sometimes, like a thousand strings connected him, controlled him, pushed him ways he didn't want to go. Strings attached to his father, to his brother, to the damn life of hunting. Still in surgery. That was good, right? That meant he might still be okay.
"Mr. Winchester, when was the last time you've eaten?" she asked him. She stepped in a little closer. She smelled good, he realized. And, as her nose wrinkled, he realized that he probably did not. Her youth, he realized. Of course. Not a nurse at all, but a pity call, sent to check on the families. She probably didn't know anything about Dean or Dad. . .she was just there to make sure the third Winchester didn't become another patient.
"I had. . .uh. . ." Sam couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. Everything had been happening so fast. They'd been in the motel, they'd thought finally safe, but then Dad's eyes had turned yellow. . .and before that there had been the fire outfits, and Dean shooting that man, and the capture and. . . "I guess that maybe I had some cereal this morning," he said lamely. The young woman reached out and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Listen," she said. "I know you're on a trip here. I know you don't have anywhere to go, that you want to stay by your father and brother. But you have to take care of yourself. Across the street is a Ronald McDonald house. They'll let you use the shower, and then you can grab some food from the cafeteria."
It didn't escape Sam's notice that she told him to shower before eating. Maybe a change of clothes, too, he thought wryly. He doubted people in the hospital liked having someone in a blood-drenched jacket reminding them of why they were there. He glanced at his father again. John Winchester had been in surgery for two hours – not bad for two gunshot wounds, the doctor's had told him. Nothing vital had been hit. He would wake up in a few hours. That had been an hour ago. He probably still had time. Could shower, change, eat something. Be back by the time his father woke up. Be back by the time they let him see Dean, anyway.
"Yeah, okay," he said. "Do you have my –"
The woman held up the clipboard clutched in her hand. "Of course. I have your cell number. I'll give you the call the minute he wakes up." Sam opened his mouth, but she cut him off, one finger raised, before he could say anything else. "Or the moment I get news about your brother."
"Thanks," Sam said.
* * * * *
"Dude, seriously?" Dean glared at the zombie standing in front of him. Waves of stench were coming off him – the smell of rot, and decay. It was as bad as when they dug up a few weeks dead body. Putrid, disgusting, and sometimes with worms. Except that this body was still alive. Still moving. Still lucid.
The man who was formerly Nick stood in front of them, flesh literally dripping down the side of his face. His clothing sizzled, burst out into occasional little bursts of flame, as though it couldn't quite contain the heat from within. One of his eyes was milky white. He had not hair.
Dean had to force down the bile rising in his throat. He lifted the colt, aimed it straight at the creature's head. It hadn't worked in the past, of course, but damn, Lucifer looked like he was halfway back to Hell already. Maybe all his needed this time was a push.
"Enough," Lucifer said. "Enough meddling, Dean. I am tired of waiting. I don't have time to wait." He raised his hand, gestured quickly. Dean pulled the trigger, knew it was a good shot, a moment before he went flying through the air, only to crash into a wall. His shoulders hit first. Good, he thought, although a searing shot through his right arm told him something might be dislocated. That was okay. He could deal with dislocated. He was still conscious, that was the good thing.
"Dean!" Sam shouted, but he didn't turn his gaze away from Lucifer. It was an involuntary yell, Dean realized. Born of instinct and habit. But there was no way to look out for each other. Not this day, not this time, not this place. Detroit. Sam was going to say yes, two years early.
It had been Dean's idea, to force the confrontation. They were still strong, he'd told Sam. They still believed in each other, still believed in free will. It was do or die, though, because he would feel his own faith waning. If they stood still too long, if they thought too much, they'd lose it. They'd lose it to Death, still cutting a swath through the southern US, or Pestilence, who had apparently set up shop in the Middle East, or to freakin' Michael, who had started showing up in Dean's head during the night, always in the guise of their father.
Dean pushed himself up, gripped his left shoulder tight. He'd been right about the shot – his aim as true as ever, the bullet had zinged straight into Lucifer's peeling forehead. . .and apparently gone right back out. Lucifer sighed, rubbed at his head as though he had a slight headache. Dean stared in disbelief as the hole covered over, healed right in front of his eyes.
"Enough," Lucifer said, and he sounded exhausted. "Sam, just say yes. Save us all of this bullshit. You know it's going to happen. I know it's going to happen. And I'm tired of playing nice."
Sam twitched a little. Dean shoved himself off the wall, stumbled a little with the first step, but regained his balance. He kept his mouth shut, for once. Trusted his brother. Trusted him to say no.
"Never," Sam said, low and certain. Lucifer cocked his head. "Okay, then," he said. He turned his horrible, milk-white gaze to Dean, and he felt an involuntary shudder go through him. He recognized that gaze. . .recognized in it a million screaming bodies, whips flashing, the light of his own soul dimming. . .
"That's it, Deano," Lucifer said. He snapped his finger. Pain ran down Dean's abdomen, sharp and ripping. He thought he could hear a dog growling. "Time's up. Reprieve from hell over. You're going back." Another rip, across his back this time. Dean fell to the ground, a scream ripping out of his chest.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, and a minute later Dean sensed his oversized brother at his side, cradling him in his arms. Dean sucked in a breath. It tore at his chest. He searched through dizzying shapes, finally found his brother's face in the maze of pain.
"You keep fighting," he rasped out. "Say no."
Sam nodded, but great, girlish sobs were ripping out of him. Dean closed his eyes, not giving up yet, just needing a moment. Hot tears fell on his face. Damn, he thought. Never got around to teaching Sam to cry like a man. Big baby still sputtered and teared up like a six year old who lost her doll.
"N-no," Sam said, but it didn't sound resolute at all. Another rip, across his chest again, and Dean could feel his heart trying to escape.
"Its not just death," Lucifer hissed, and now Dean could taste the putrefication in the air. He tried to breathe in, something fresh, but all he could taste was flame and iron. "It's hell. And he's not breaking out this time. No angels will save him. Eternity in Hell, Sam. Is that what you want for your brother? Just think of what he went through last time. . .and that was only four months."
"N-no," Dean said, but he had to choke it up past blood and mucus. Another rip, and God, Dean thought, the Hellhounds had been faster than this.
"Say yes, Sam. I can make it stop. Just say yes."
"No," Sam said, and he clutched Dean closer. That hurt, too, but Dean had neither the desire, nor the ability to tell his brother that. Because this hurting – this hurting was good. Sure, it was a ripping, tearing feeling, but it was just his body. He could take this for eternity. Hell, maybe he could take hell for eternity, this time. Knowing he'd save the damn world.
"Fuck," Lucifer hissed, and Dean's eyes focused for a moment on that word. He'd never heard the devil swear, not like that. Never heard an angel swear, for that moment. There was something sick in it, something delightfully human. Rip again, through his stomach this time, and he was certain that things were falling out of his body, now, splaying across the floor. He wondered, inanely, where Michael was in all this, where Cas was. Had Chuck foreseen this? Maybe they should have checked in with the prophet before
Oh GOD, now he could feel the poison of the saliva working through his system. His head was going to explode, globby bits flying across the world.
"The world will end, Sam. End," Lucifer spat out. His true form was peeking out through falling flesh. Flames were appearing at the edge of his fingernails. "Death and Pestilence are already here. I will let out Famine, give War free reign. Your world will end whether you say yes or not. . .might as well save your brother while you're at it."
"No," Dean said. Thought he said. Knew he didn't, because his mouth was filled with blood, now, enough blood that he couldn't talk. Tasted coppery, silvery, goldy, and every type of metal. Sam's tears were burning his face, now, as hot as the flames licking at Lucifer's shirtsleeves.
The blood must have clogged up his ears, too, because he could have sworn he heard the flap of wings. Must have been what he wanted to hear. And the click of cheap loafers. And the voice, so droll, saying "Stop."
He really knew he was far gone when that word was followed by a low, sexy voice saying "Now, Lucifer. Step back."
"Hang on, Dean," Sam said. "The cavalry's alive."
Whatever that meant.
