Chapter One: When the Siren Sings
Description: It's has been decades since The Purge has been instated. Once a year, all crime is overseen for a brief twelve hour period. The United States has since become – statistically, that is – better. As a coming of age passage, Dean Winchester is facing down his first Purge. A night on his own to prove his worth to his father. Twelve no-holds-bar hours where anything can happen.
Author's Note: I know it's been awhile. I've been working on my novel and sort of leaned away from fanfiction to focus. But this little bug got in.
So I saw a preview for the new movie 'The Purge' and immediately had ideas. I'm trying to shorten this as best as possible and am having a horrendous time doing so.
Other News: 'Plucking Feathers Like Flower Petals' is getting a reboot – just not sure when it will be up.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything – all rights go to their respective parties. I'm just borrowing them a bit.
A sweet thanks to: Cullen and Ash for letting me bounce this idea off of you.
Warnings: Violence, character death, future Destiel
Chapter One: When the Siren Sings
A night of passage.
That's what their father would tell them every year, as the days grew closer till the boys would then have to participate. The father would prepare for weeks. He'd clean every knife with precision, at least four times each. He'd sharpen his machete in the front yard while the neighbors went over their ax. They'd chat calmly, conversing over long work hours and the damned weeds that cursed their flower beds. They discuss killing over the neatly trimmed garden hedge, chilling the air with empty threats they saw as jokes.
Sam would ask Dean about it as the years went on. His father John would never tell him, maybe his big brother will. Yet every year when the Purge was amongst them Dean wouldn't let Sammy watch the television unless he could supervise. He'd steer his baby brother clear from people chattering excitedly with feral looks in their eyes. Sammy would watch Dean when they'd hunker down in the basement. The windows were boarded and they only sat down there with a single candle.
They would have all the blankets from the house piled in one corner behind boxes and plastic containers. Sam would read his books and get Dean to read him to sleep. Dean would hum for the rest of the night, being the only sound Sammy ever heard. Every year he'd wake in the morning with Dean still sitting awake next to him clutching his coat that was folded in his lap. The same siren would blare. Dean would relax. John would come home.
"Just a year more closer, Sammy." John would say, his smile always crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Again, Sam would ask his big brother what he meant, what was coming, and Dean never told him. He never wanted his baby brother to take part in The Purge. He never wanted little Sammy to run into the fray. He had a heart of gold; too good to take part of it.
Yet as the next year was upon them, he wouldn't have Dean with him to read him to sleep. To double check the boarded windows. No one to watch over him
from the unseen as he slept. Every day looked more tired, more worn, more on edge. He started trickling off sleep, hardly eating. He'd get snappy with little Sammy over petty things.
So as Sam hunkered down in the basement, eying the knife his brother had put in his hands, he couldn't help but wondering if it was going to be okay. The only thing he knew was instinct, and that was telling him to hug the knife and not his books. To watch the door and windows and not the backs of his eyelids. To remain alert for whatever should bare down upon him.
Dean was standing in the living room with his father.
They had just finished fixing the door to the basement to look as if it didn't exist. People had been known to hide in houses during The Purge. Despite the Winchester house being harder to break into that the fanciest houses in the neighborhood, desperate people could do amazing things.
The news was on the television, just like it was every year.
This was how Dean found out about how it.
The year his mother was killed in The Purge was the year John stopped caring. Dean had cradled baby Sammy in his arms the next day while his father tended to nothing, lost in a void. The news had been left on from before they had left. Where Dean hadn't understood much then, he had grown to learn more every year. With every year trying his best to protect Sam against it.
Now Dean was nearly eighteen, far from the horrified little boy who had tears fall down his cheeks as the news displayed horrors. Now a stoic man stared at the screen, looking at years passed. They showed street cameras of people standing around and waiting. Other hunkering down in their house.
"You sure you don't want to come with me and the Harvelle's?" John muttered, staring at the television absently. He was jamming another knife into another holder.
Dean was spinning the machete handle in his hand, his jaw set tight. "No, that isn't how you prove a right of passage."
John gave a curt nod, though Dean wasn't looking to see. John's boots hit against the hardwood harshly and he stalked over to the door and swung it open. He paused and Dean nearly turned to see if he was going to say something. Before he had a chance to glance, the door slammed shut.
He stopped spinning his weapon of choice. No Winchester used a gun during The Purge. It was cheap and cowardly. Now that he relaxed, his shaking was more visible. His shoulders trembled and his hands quaked. He sucked in a quivering breath as he checked one last time for his father. He reached in his coat, pulling out an envelope. It had Sam's name on it, a letter full of instructions and apologies in case Dean did not make it home tonight. He couldn't leave Sam with nothing.
He checked the screen.
One hour left until Purge.
He went out the front door and began to go over the house; securing, checking and double checking to make sure no one could get in. Only he and his father knew how to get back in once they were out. Otherwise it was a fortress. Sammy would be safe there, deep in the basement with his piles of books and dim candles.
By the time he was done he had a sweat break out across his skin, causing his hair to stick to his forehead. He sighed, touching his fingers to the front door, trying to remember if he properly hugged his brother today. Somewhere off in the distance, the sirens blared, followed immediately by blood curdling screams and cries of war.
Sam got up after he heard the siren. He sighed, grabbing the shot gun he had hidden and began up the basement steps. His father and brother were so consumed with other things today they never noticed him taking it. It took him longer than he thought to get out of the door, but his brother and father had done it out of good.
He began to push everything back into place. Lest he needed his brother and father freaking out about him coming out of the basement. The television was left on, just as he suspected. It was on every year. Dean always tried to get it off before Sammy saw it, but Sam was smarter than he usually let on. It was nearly impossible to ignore The Purge and what happened during it. Dean had done a good job until this point, shielding and protecting him. Though as the years went on and Sam became more aware, he simply began to playing dumb and confused for Dean's sake. His older brother never knew he set traps around the windows before the sun came up the morning The Purge would begin. He never knew his little brother would sneak out of a bed the week leading up and prepared the house in ways his father and brother would forget.
He still had a few precious years left before he was to participate. This year though, he wanted to see what would happen. He needed to. He could only sneak so much knowledge with his brother constantly around. Despite Sam's underlying fear he would see his brother or father murder – or worse – be killed on air; he needed to see.
He grabbed his laptop from under the couch, flipping it open. He was right when he purchased all the cameras for the house. Neither his father nor brother would notice. One half gave him the scope of inside the house – basement included. The others, with night vision soon to be enabled, hawked the outside of the house. He clicked away to arm the window traps. Should someone try to come through, he need only press one button. He wished he could put it on sensor, but he had no clue if his brother would come home early.
Sammy took a seat. The laptop on his knees and the shotgun laying across it. He looked to the screen; a group of five men beating a fallen one with their bare fists. The unofficial counter, at the top part on the screen, began to climb. People would call in, proud of the killings, and the numbers were displayed.
They were about to finish up the first hour and dip into the second. It was the only time Sam knew of they didn't have commercial breaks. He looked to the table, hoping he'd remembered to grab a snack and drink, but forgotten. His eyes landed on the crumpled envelope, his name branding it in Dean's handwriting.
Sam moved over the laptop and shot gun, reaching his right hand down in the cushion to grab the hand gun he stuffed there while his left grabbed at the envelope. He still had his sneakers on, careful not to have them squeak against the floor,but he needed them in case he had to run. He mulled over opening the envelope, knowing he'd have to reseal it if he truly didn't want Dean to know he had been upstairs. It was challenging enough to get back into the basement. Dean would be mad. Dean would be coming home.
He heard several loud pops, all consecutive gunshots. He dropped to one knee, squared his shoulders, clicked off the safety and cocked the hammer. The barrel was pointed towards the front of the house where he had heard the noise. Desperately he wanted to get to his laptop, check the cameras. But he knew the risks. Some people were blood thirty on this night, killing what they could. If they could somehow manage to get a sign that someone was in the house, they'd try to get in after him. The floorboards had habits of groaning. He heard the gun shots begin to ring out again and he launched towards the couch, lying on the floor next to it as he yanked down his computer and the shot gun. He slid the pistol under the couch as he cracked open his laptop. He worked the computer with one hand as the other pointed the shotgun forward.
His eyes swiveled to the screen, he enlarged the one that had movement. Just outside, to the left of his house near his neighbors.
He sucked in a scream, nearly dropping the shotgun in the process. He made the camera zoom in, just as he watched his father drive a knife through his neighbors skull.
Dean was full on sprinting back to his house. He knew the gun shots were coming from there. He didn't know why, maybe he was just paranoid. It was probably a few streets over. He had gotten far enough away so fast he couldn't properly tell. He just knew he had to check.
He dashed by a group of men, standing around a groaning form on the ground. Dean heard the knife sink in and back out and back in again. He didn't stop, didn't hesitate, didn't think of anything except his brother.
He barreled down his street, seeing his house looming in the distance as if it was further away that it usually was. He saw a form lying on the sidewalk, small in stature and sprawled out. He could see the red in the lamplight of the street post. He drove himself to run faster. He honed his hearing around him, aware this could be a trap.
He slowed his steps, trying to quietly steady his breathing. He looked down at the dead body of his neighbor. Her blonde hair soaked with red, her eyes glassed and looking for nothing.
Dean grimaced, kneeling down and shutting her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jo. I should have gone with my dad."
He ducked his head when he heard gunshots echo into the night. His heart pumped with a sudden fervor. He whispered sorry to Jo one last time, though she couldn't hear him. The guilt he had felt was suddenly gone in a flurry of adrenaline and survival instinct.
He habitually ran towards his house, but at the last moment, knowing it was stupid to lead people to his home, he cut and went towards the Harvelle's.
He dipped behind their house and vaulted over the railing for the basement steps.
He dragged his jacket up in bunches and pressed it to his nose and mouth, muffling his harsh breaths. He yanked up his right pant leg and pulled out a throwing knife. He let his jacket go, slowing picking his machete back up. He couldn't even remember setting it down. He took long, slow and deep breaths, letting his eyes adjust back to the darkness that the streetlamp ruined. He stilled himself, hunkering in the corner in wait. He remembered back to his training that his father subjected him to. Sniper breathing. How to slow your heart and have your breaths spaced further apart, leaving you to remain stiller, longer. He needed it now to be quiet.
He knew he should go out there and face whatever was coming. Whoever was coming. Despite his father's wants for Dean to get his first blood, he knew he couldn't be sloppy. He couldn't be stupid. He was trying so hard not to be reckless. He heard the stampede of footfalls. He turned his head slightly, trying to hear better. It had to have been more than just a few people he knew – a large group. In heavy pursuit no less. He slowly sucked in a breath, bracing his position. He wouldn't win against all those people.
"You heard it, didn't you?" The first voice said, a woman.
Dean held his breath. "We don't have this much time to be standing around."
Another woman responded. "We need to get this done. He won't stay around here knowing he's a Purge target."
A man laughed, deep and mutinous. "Wherever they go they will be hunted on these nights. They know it."
"Well now that we got one little lamb lost from the group, we need to drive the others away. Only a few need to go after Castiel. We cannot come up
shorthanded another year."
There was a murmur of disagreement.
"We still have Winchester to head off." A voice said.
Dean suddenly felt like he was choking and his body locked in a rigid stance.
"Well looks like we have to call it and go our separate ways instead of standing around waiting for tea."
They didn't discuss who would go where, but they immediate parted their separate ways. Dean swallowed, quietly sucking in a breath. He was begging internally for these people to not find him. They had to work together closely, know each other personally. These were those most dangerous ones. The ones who could read minds and looks and just know.
We looked over his shoulder, his eyes meeting concrete but mentally seeing his house. The large group went that way. His insides cringed.
He counted to a slow sixty. Keeping his breaths quiet though his heart was now trying to beat out of his chest.
He began his slow ascent up the steps, pleading his boots to be silent. For no twig or rock to find the sole of his shoe. He asked his limbs not to betray him. He gripped his weapons harder.
The group seemed to be long gone. A mission for blood was a mission indeed.
He lay his body amongst the steps as he tried to peek around, checking and double checking. He didn't want his mirror to catch any light and send a signal. He saw nothing, heard no one close. He made his way up, still moving slow and cautious.
He was thankful when no one came out of the bushes and jumped him. He took calculated steps across the lawn, putting his back to the house and hugged the siding. He paused before crossing lawns. The street light radiated. Dean remembered how far it went from his nights outside watching Sammy play. He couldn't go passed the ring of light. He began his aching walk around the border, trying to get to his house. He knew what Winchester they were after. His father John was the only one who was brash enough to have people angry.
Dean and Sam kept their heads down, had never been involved in the purge, and were just hardworking kids without a mom. They usually got sympathy rather than vendettas. This was a game changer though. He didn't care what his father would likely do to him for going home. For not getting a kill. Dean knew how these minds of killers worked better than his father. He didn't know why or how, it was just instinct. He knew if someone couldn't get John, he'd get his son or sons to get him going. To get him hunting. Just like he had been since their mother, Mary, was killed.
There was a noise, a slight ruffling of the trees. Dean spun and threw the knife without pretense, letting it glide true. A squirrel dropped from the tree, the knife clean through it's body.
He let out a soft sigh of relief.
"Nice throw, little Winchester." Dean felt his heart stop. He clenched his jaw and turned again.
He slashed his machete as he turned, blade out and felt it graze in a long arch. He swung it back immediately before even fully extending his arm. He fell short on his rebound. He backed his face away in a buck at the knife that flashed just past his eyes. He could see the detailing on the handle. Hand carved, special order, sharper than hell.
He flicked his wrist up, his arm fallowing, he felt the sting of pain splash across it. His hand went limp, his weapon fell. He swung with his good arm, his fist bundled tightly for a blow. He felt the gash spring open on his face as the blade found him. His feet shuffled back as he kicked out low, hearing a grunt of pain. He was becoming blind from panic, adrenaline and pain.
He grabbed for the neck, another flash of metal had his other arm in blinding pain.
He didn't cry out. He kept his right arm swinging since he could still feel it. There was a difference in pain when your life was on the line. He caught the arm of the assailant and heard on knife fall with a clunk. The newly free hand found Dean's throat with little trouble.
He received a kick to the stomach and coughed. He fell to his knees when another blow came immediately after – all the air was knocked out of him.
He gasped for breath, tried to will his body to move but the response was nothing. He felt his lungs burning and his eyes watered unwillingly.
The hand was removed from his throat. He pulled in a harsh breath and braced for the impact of his death. A blow to the temple or throat. He had fallen forward on his hands and knees. He hoped Sam wouldn't find him.
He felt an arm wrap around his chest, heaving at him. "Get up."
The voice was gruff, harsh and alarmed. Nothing like the mocking voice from before. "Move Dean!"
He straightened as much as he could go, wincing when the person grabbed his arm and threw it over his shoulder. Dean glanced down. His throwing knife was plunged into the base of the skull of his opponent. The one he left in the squirrel.
"We need to hide." The strange voice struck his ear, urgency in the undertones. "Before someone comes from the noise."
There was the blatant cocking of a shotgun. "Bring him this way. Now!"
Dean had one eye swelling shut near the gash under his eye. He could still see though. The silhouette of his baby brother standing in the shadows, shotgun aimed at the ready.
"Sam you know-"
"I saw it all on the cameras Castiel. Now bring him over here."
Dean meant to push away. He did. But his limbs felt so tired now. The dark yard was getting a little darker by the second. He tried to focus, knowing he was about to pass out. He wanted to yell to his brother to get back inside. To stay safe.
"You need help treating him." Castiel replied, making sure his steps were slow and cautious.
Sam nearly snarled. "I can treat my own brother."
"Then why don't you let me leave him here and leave?"
"Castiel..." Sam sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "If he comes home and find you in the house, he will kill you. Purge or not. If he finds out anyone else was in the house, let alone I came out...he-he'll..."
With those last teary words of fright and pain, Dean whispered. It was the last thing he remembered.
"Let him in, Sammy."
Then the world faded.
Author's Note: I'm having so much fun with this. I truly am.