Honoring the Dead
Author: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.
Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.
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Chapter 3
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Sam had fled up the stairs, desperate to get away from Bobby, from the older man's words. But turning the corner in the upstairs hallway, he had to stop, had to raise a hand to the wall to steady himself, was drained by the trip up the stairs as much as by the emotions coursing through him.
He didn't blame Dean for taking Bobby up on his offer to leave him behind, if only for an hour or so. Wasn't angry that Dean couldn't meet his eyes, that he didn't want to be touched by him. Realized that there was a real possibility that his threat to Bobby was hollow, that Dean wouldn't agree to leave with him, that his brother was done backing his plays, especially after everything..everyone such devotion had already cost him. He worried that he no longer had that kind of pull with Dean, that his little brother status didn't mean much stacked up against the tally of his betrayals.
When he had heard the knock on the door, he stilled, felt his heart rate speed up. Because their life? It was never about friends dropping in for a BBQ.
"Who is it?" Hearing Bobby's belligerent greeting eased something in Sam, made him smile faintly.
"It's Devon." Sam pictured a face to go along with the name and voice, a hunter younger than he was, probably twenty three, a kid Dean and he had met a year or so ago. Dean had shown an open disdain for him, and Sam, trusting his brother's instincts, had adopted that same regard for the hunter. It was funny to him, to think the kid was the same age he had been when he and Dean re-partnered up. 'That seems so young now..and so long ago.'
"I'm busy, kid. Call Rufus or hit a library yourself for a change," came Bobby's retort and that made Sam chuckle softly. Bobby might call them idgits but he never turned them down when they needed his help.
"Got someone injured." That had Sam pushing off the wall, standing up, nerves on alert, wondering if trouble had followed these hunters to their door.
"Hospital's ten miles due south on route 87."
"Come on Singer! He's a hunter." Pause. "Thought you old guys had a code or something."
"Code's dead." Sam was shocked by Bobby's cold response, surprised because he knew it wasn't dead, that Bobby believed in helping other hunters, in hunters sticking together, watching each other's backs. Guiltily, he recognized that Bobby was forsaking the code for them, to protect them, to protect him in his weakened, pathetic state. He contemplated going down the stairs, telling Bobby that it was OK to let Devon in, that he didn't have to abandon his code for him.
"What's that saying about not turning away strangers 'cause you might be entertaining angels and you don't know it?" 'You don't know the half of it,' Sam thought, shaking his head, thinking of their own private angel. Remembering all the times Cas had saved them, gratitude washed over him. Then there was the most recent turn of events. Cas had disappeared before he had gotten a chance to thank him for staying around while he was detoxing, not just for his sake but for Dean's. For being there so that Dean wasn't alone in his vigil outside the panic room door, so that it wasn't just Bobby trying to get his brother to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself, regardless that both man and angel had failed in those endeavors.
If anyone knew how stubborn his brother was, it was Sam. Suddenly he missed Dean, fiercely, like he had been painfully alone in the panic room.
"Come on Bobby! The guy's bleeding out! If it were one of your precious Winchesters, you would want other hunters to help them!" Hearing his last name coupled with Devon's unveiled scorn for Bobby's love for them, Sam stood ramrod straight, hated that Devon was using the older hunter's affection for them to get in the door. With an escalating sense of danger, he was about to call out a warning to Bobby, to go grab one of the older hunter's stashed weapons when he heard Bobby's reply. "Alright. Don't start recapping Lassie episodes…"
"Bring 'em in boys," Devon beckoned and Sam could hear the single footfalls in the kitchen. Wondering if he was overreacting, he held his position, ears straining to hear the conversation below.
"You can put him on the couch in the living room," Bobby accommodated and Sam stilled even more, knew that the men were close enough to hear the hallway floor boards squeak if he even shifted his weight.
"No need to put you out more than we already are. Put him on the floor." The order was cold, in direct contrast to the urgency and concern that the hunter had used before. Then there was a thud that made Sam swallow sickly because he knew that sound too intimately. It was the almost unmistakable sound of a body being dumped callously onto a hard floor.
Even before Bobby spoke, Sam knew in his heart the truth. Bobby's husky "Dean," was a bleak, painful confirmation. Torn between rushing the stairs to get to his brother and slipping down the hallway to find a weapon, he found he couldn't do either action. Couldn't move. Couldn't force himself to even draw in a breath. Not without knowing if Dean was alive.
As if to torment him further, he heard the murmur of words but they were spoken too softly for his ears to decipher. A few seconds later, "So where's Sam?" came to him clearly and unexpectedly. 'Preparing to kill you with my bare hands,' Sam vowed, hands tightening into fists, too frantic with worry to feel ashamed that he was cursing the fact there was not enough remnants of his power left to enable him to kill with little more than a thought.
"Not here. You're behind on the news, kid. Him and Dean parted ways months ago." Though Bobby's deflection was delivered in a voice raging with anger, threaded with concern, there was no grief in the older man's tone. 'Dean's alive,' Sam rationalized, repeated it to himself like a Latin mantra to keep away evil. 'Dean's alive. Dean's alive. Dean's not dead.' Forcing a breath into his tight lungs, he ached to bound down the stairs, to confirm his belief. To get proof that Bobby's statement wasn't true, that he and Dean hadn't parted ways, not again, not everlastingly. He had survived Dean's death before but he knew he wouldn't choose that path again, not even to honor Dean's wishes. If Dean were gone….
"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. You never did think I was very smart, did you?"
"Never thought you were this stupid."
"I'm smart enough to get the drop on your beloved Dean. I'm smart enough to get asked into your house, and…" The rest Sam couldn't hear. He fought the urge to step closer to the landing, to not miss what was happening below. But he remained immobile, knew that Bobby was trying to buy him time, was counting on him to do something, even sans his powers.
Then Devon raised his voice, allowing him back into the scene below. "You always were a wily one, Singer."
"I don't need weapons to finish you off, Devon," Bobby was pissed, that was clear. 'Sorry, Bobby, if he's hurt Dean, there won't be anything left of Devon after I'm done with him.'
"Maybe you're still in a state of denial. You're paralyzed, old man. I can do anything I want and you can't stop me." At Devon's taunt to the disabled man and his open threat, more hatred and dread blossomed in Sam. He almost jumped when Devon's voice was raised loud enough to ring throughout the house.
"Sam, come out now unarmed if you want your brother to stay breathing." Sam nearly folded in relief, let his shoulder rest against the wall as Devon's ultimatum repeated in his head. It was verification that Dean was breathing, that he was alive. Anything else faded in comparison. Or so he thought. Then he heard the reverberation of flesh being struck and his brother's recognizable groan of pain.
Instantly, Sam abandoned the idea of getting a weapon, of coming up with a sneak attack, of doing anything…anything that would put Dean in further jeopardy. "Stop! I'm coming down!" he shouted. Hands raised, he stepped onto the stair's landing and got his first glimpse of the scene below, of Dean sprawled unmoving on the floor. And, no matter how much time had passed since Dean had come back to him from hell, he still relived Dean's death in instances like this one: Carrying Dean's lifeless, blood soaked body to the Impala, settling Dean in that wooden box, covering that wooden casket with dirt. It felt like he would forever be locked in the loop of fear. That no matter what he did, Gabriel's words would be true again: No matter what you do, you can't save your brother.
Pain, fear, weakness, lack of control, loss of self: it all came back in a rush. Every emotion that had consumed him after Dean had died, when Dean had left him alone…when Ruby's company was both comfort and punishment, when her teachings offered up both condemnation and absolution. He had vowed that he wouldn't feel those things again, would never hurt like that, ever again. Had thought that cutting himself off from Dean, going with Ruby, telling himself that he was hunting Lilith without Dean for Dean's own protection, that it would keep Dean at a distance, would ensure that if his brother left him again, he would survive this time…soul in tact.
But it had been a lie, more poorly fabricated than any of Ruby's. Their separation a few months ago had undeniably shown him just how much he had fooled himself. And moments like this? With Dean clearly hurt. It proved that point ten fold.
Coming down the stairs, eyes on his brother, Sam knew that the choices he had made lately, no matter how wrong they had been, they were never about not loving Dean enough. Instead they had been about loving his brother too much. His mother's refusal to leave their father before they had children? He understood that depth of love. His mother's refusal to leave John and raise Dean on her own? He knew what prompted that too: a desire for her family to be complete, to not be torn apart, the desire to cling to some kind of normalcy, to be happy…even if it wasn't meant to last.
Tearing his eyes from his brother's still but breathing form, Sam shifted his incensed gaze to Devon. He stood still as one of the other men patted him down, checking him for weapons. "I did what you asked. Now step away from my brother."
Raising his own hands, Devon offered up an accommodating smile. He took a step back from Dean then another, as if Sam was the one calling the shots.
Sam saw the change in Devon's eyes a moment before he understood the man's intentions. Yelling "NO!" he tried to intervene, but, as weak as he was, the two other men blocked him with pathetic ease. He was forced to watch helplessly as Devon took a few running steps before unleashing a kick into Dean's kidneys. Dean arched under the assault and gave a cry of agony, his hand instinctively searching for some leverage against the agony.
"I will kill you!" Sam screamed at Devon, straining against the hold the two men had on him. Adrenaline, fear and rage gave him the strength to lock his legs, to not crumble in exhaustion. "What did Dean ever do to you?!"
Causally stepping over the limp body by his boot, Devon made his way to Sam. "To me personally? Nothing," he supplied with a careless shrug of his shoulders.
"Then why do this? Why are you here?" Sam demanded, knew that Devon liked a good fight, relished a challenging hunt. That he had a reputation of letting his prey make a run for it, so he could prolong the chase. But Devon wasn't usually into torture.
"Because Bobby might have forsaken the hunter's code for you two but I haven't," Devon cryptically explained. "Handcuff all three of them," he blandly ordered, didn't stick around to see if his orders were carried out. Instead, he walked away, disinterested, headed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. "You got anything to eat? I'm starving."
Even as Sam was manhandled into a chair and his hands were handcuffed behind him, his eyes met Bobby's, read the older man's vow as if he had spoken aloud. 'We're getting out of this, son. All of us.'
But Sam knew about such vows, such hope. Had wanted to vow the same thing when Jo went down under the hell hound's attack, had wanted to drag Ellen out of that hardware store, had wanted Dean to look at him and promise what he had before. 'Nothing bad is going to happen to you as long as I'm around.' But something bad had happened. Dean had done the worst thing to him that he could, he had died on him. After that, believing in happily ever after, the good guys always winning? Those fairy tales were over for him.
His new vow was without the rose colored shading. He would not lose his brother again. Would use every single thing at his disposal, evil or not, to keep that vow. No matter the consequences. Would again willingly destroy himself, condemn himself to keep Dean safe. After all, Dean had condemned his soul for him, made himself defenseless against Alistair's torture, unknowingly set himself up to break the first seal. Him condemning his own soul to save Dean this time? It had always seemed an uneven reciprocation. Certainly felt like a case of too little, too late.
So if he had to kill all these hunters to save Dean and Bobby, Sam would do that. If he needed to call on whatever powers that might still be lurking in him, he would do that too. The only thing that scared him was the thought that he might save Dean only to have his brother hate him, leave him.
He remembered young John Winchester's condemnation for a father that taught his sons how to hunt. But he clearly understood now what he hadn't as a child, as John's son. That his father had done the only thing he could to save his children, to protect them. He had made sure they could protect themselves, that they knew how to survive, anything. He had chosen to love his sons fiercely enough to incite their hatred.
Sam would make that same choice too. Would endure Dean's hatred and anything else Dean leveled at him…just as long as Dean was alive. Just as long as history didn't repeat itself, as long as he didn't lose his brother to death again.
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Dean woke to the low thread of voices and the too familiar ache of having had his head bashed in. He lay still, trying to gauge the situation, to not let his captors know he was conscious. He could feel the hard surface under his cheek and along his body. Not a bed, probably a floor. Not surprising that his wrists were bound. He didn't even have to move to know there were some injured areas, like his head, which wasn't anything new. It had ached since one of Famine's goons had made him do a header into a door. Then there was his back and ribs, simply inhaling and exhaling caused pain to spike. So yeah, he could move but it wasn't going to be scary fast or anything. He had worked with far less.
Next he strained his hearing even as he breathed in, tried to pick up a smell that would help him recognize where he was. He bit his lip as the pain hit him at the inhale, fought to not groan or cringe, struggled to put his focus on what he had learned. Devon's voice he recognized but he couldn't make out the words. The man was too far away. And as for a smell? There was grease, gasoline and a tinge of Daffodils? Daffodils like Bobby had used in his spell the previous night.
He was at Bobby's house.
The knowledge was both a point of relief and panic. He was on familiar ground but it also meant that Bobby and Sam had been dragged into whatever crap storm was brewing. And he didn't doubt it was going to be a destructive storm because, what Devon had said about judgment? It didn't bode well. Nor did Devon's cold calculation in quickly setting up a sniper to take a shot at him. That the young hunter had dropped off a fourth man before he turned around, crested the hill, and approached the Impala, it screamed premeditation, indicated a purpose, a plan.
Dean knew that it should have been reassuring that he was alive, that the rifle shot wasn't meant to be a headshot. But it wasn't because the way his head felt…a bullet in it couldn't have made it hurt much worse.
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His brother being his sole focus, not just in that moment but practically of his life, Sam instantly sensed the change in Dean's breathing, the minuscule tightening in his brother's frame. Wished he could offer up a whisper, but didn't want to alert their captors of Dean's wakefulness. Whatever Devon had in mind, it wasn't anything good. Dean knocked out and dumped on the floor and him and Bobby tied up, it didn't take a genius to figure that out.
Desperately, he wanted to connect with Dean, to reassure himself that Dean was alright as much as to collaborate on some kind of plan. Reaching out with his foot, he tapped his brother's ankle, hoped Dean was with it enough to figure out the Morris code: 'S.t.a.y. S.t.i.l.l. 3. m.e.n."
Dean nearly jerked at the contact, would have had his life not been all about having nerves of steel. After the initial surprise, it registered: the shoe tapping against his ankle…Morris Code. 'Sam' he realized, almost allowed himself to slip back under the void at the relief. Maybe would have it Sam's tapping didn't require his full attention. . 'T.i.e.d.' And Dean knew Sam wasn't talking about their prank war tallies. By the angle of Sam's foot, he calculated Sam's position in the room, a chair a few feet to the left of his feet. Was wondering Bobby's status when the tapping continued. 'B. t.o.o.' Dean silently cursed. Yeah they were screwed, but anger was rising to the surface. Fury that Devon thought he could play home invasion, could tie up Sam, who was weak as a newborn kitten right then and Bobby, who had no feeling in his legs. It ranked up there with drowning puppies in Dean's mind and he wasn't going to stand for it. Well, wouldn't after he rested for a moment, gathered his strength, told his headache to keep it down and his ribs to suck it up.
Watching the interaction between the brothers, Bobby knew he shouldn't have been surprised that Sam would know the instant that his brother was awake, that the two of them would find a way to communicate. Every time he thought he had the brothers figured out, knew just how in tune or out of tune they were with each other, they went and made his information obsolete.
While their unwelcome guests were scavenging in the kitchen, Bobby whispered, his eyes on Sam but his words for both brothers, "Devon's friends, they ain't hunters. My guess is they're hired help." Knew that the way the men carried themselves, their disinterest in Devon's rantings. And the information, it mattered. Was more about predicting the men's actions than any notion of loyalty among hunters.
"Mercenaries?" Sam quietly responded, thinking of soldiers dressed in camouflage and toting M16s in a foreign land.
"More like thugs for hire," Bobby undertoned, his contempt sharp, was surprised when Sam's head snapped down to Dean as if the other man had spoken aloud.
"There's another one of them," Sam announced with certainty, eyes rising from his brother's seemingly immobile form to Bobby. "He's probably outside, on guard."
Bobby almost asked if he were tapping into his physic thing again when he noticed that Sam was shifting his foot slightly tighter against Dean's foot, realized that somehow Dean had told Sam that their odds just got worse. "Not like we were going to have much luck with the odds being even."
"What does he want Bobby?" Sam growled, hated that Dean was getting the crap beat out of him and he didn't even know why yet. Didn't know what he could say or do to stop Devon from hurting Dean further. Only knew that Devon's anger was focused on his brother.
"Far as I can piece together, he thinks we've broken some code between hunters," Bobby hissed, wondering what a sadist kid like Devon knew about codes of conduct, of what bound hunters together. From what he could tell, the kid didn't know a thing about honor or loyalty.
Before Sam could ask Bobby what code Devon thought they had broken, that Dean had broken, Devon's thug buddies ambled back into the room. One approached Dean's inert form and Sam tensed, wished Dean wasn't so vulnerable, lying on the floor like he was.
The first man stepped over Dean and crouched down behind his back. Roughly he gripped Dean's bound arms and started dragging the oldest Winchester to his feet, not caring if he were unconscious or not.
Dean took the opportunity that presented itself. Snapping his head back, he felt it impact with a nose, heard the man's roar of pain and the hands wrapped around his forearms drop away. Released from one thug's grip, he saw the second thug go on the offensive, charge for him. He let him get just close enough to make the kick he sent into the man's chest very effective.
Freed of both hired thugs, Dean could see Devon was abandoning his sandwich in the kitchen, was stalking his way. Unwilling to go mano y mano with Devon with his hands handcuffed behind his back, Dean jumped off the ground, did it high enough that he could slid his bound hands under his feet. Landing, he smiled at Devon as his bound hands were now in front of him. It wasn't a perfect situation but he felt it was at least 75% improved.
Lazily walking into the room, Devon raised his gun, aimed it at Dean's chest, his eyes lancing into the oldest Winchester's heated green glare. Then he smiled cockily. Sliding the magazine free of the gun, he carelessly tossed both gun and clip on the table beside him. "Like I said, you never back down from a fight, no matter how bad the odds. Which suits me just fine," he derisively admitted, before he took a swing at Dean.
With his hands bound together, Dean went on the defensive first, raised his arms and blocked Devon's right cross. Taking the opportunity to strike, he brought his knee up into Devon's gut. When the younger man bowed under the assault, Dean clasped his hands together and slammed them down across his opponent's back, sending Devon to the floor.
But whatever victory Dean had achieved was short-lived as he was grabbed by the elbows and yanked backwards. His back and head impacted brutally with the living room wall and then thug number one was putting his fist through his gut. Air knocked out of him, Dean leaned over, was kept upright by the thugs on either side of him.
Slowly, unflappably, Devon climbed to his feet, gave the impression that he was enjoying himself, that taking a shot from Dean, even going down to the ground, it was Ok. Wouldn't mean much in the end. He pulled something from his pocket but kept it concealed in the palm of his hand as he approached Dean.
"Devon, what do you want?!" Sam demanded angrily, had pulled uselessly at his handcuffs that bound him to the chair, had wished that some of his powers remained to help him get free. It was a bittersweet realization to know that the blood's effects were completely gone, that they were out of his system, were no longer there for him to call upon. Even to protect his brother.
Devon smiled at Sam but gave no answer, stepped closer to Dean, who had regained his breath and was looking at him with hatred and the promise of a beat down. "Three against one, doesn't seem fair, does it?" he taunted. He wasn't afraid of Dean Winchester, no matter the older hunter's reputation.
"You know it's the only way you got a chance against me," Dean snarled, standing taller as he faced Devon. He relished the idea of his fist knocking loose the kid's perfect white teeth.
But not being afraid of Dean Winchester was a world's difference than underestimating him. "Oh, I know. I've heard the stories. I've seen you in action a time or two. But this really isn't about your ability to survive, to win." He enjoyed Dean's scowl of confusion. "This experiment is about Pamela." He saw the minuscule break in Winchester's armor at the name of the deceased physic. Coming closer, he lowly spat, "This is about her being blind, being unarmed and forced to fight for her life against astronger, armed opponent." He saw Dean stiffen at the picture he painted.
Bending down, Devon pulled a knife from his boot, made sure Winchester saw it nice and close up. He was slightly disappointed that no fear flared in Dean's eyes, that instead a cold glare of cocky challenge was the other hunter's response. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Dean wouldn't guess what was coming next.
"I pulled Pamela into our fight, not Dean!" Bobby confessed heatedly. "You want to punish someone for her death, her blindness, that's on me."
"Bobby, shut up!" Dean barked, eyes never leaving Devon's. "I'm the reason she was blinded. And I'm the one that dragged her into that town where she got killed," he affirmed, no hesitation in his words but a flickering of guilt in his gaze.
"We never wanted to get her hurt…or killed," Sam insisted huskily, his own guilt unhidden, remembered being too late to save her, helplessly watching her take her labored last breathes. Would forever recall her last words to him…words he didn't heed and should have. Oh, how he should have listened to her.
Devon shook his head, eyes having never left Dean's. "That's par for the course with you Winchesters, isn't it. Oops, we got someone else killed by our screw ups. And. You. Never. Know. How. It. Feels. To. Be. That. Person," he gritted out. "Well now you will." Then he raised his left hand, revealed a small canister, and sprayed a stream of liquid into both of Dean's eyes.
Dean cried out in surprised agony, clamped his eyes shut tightly but the action didn't lessen the pain. It felt like acid had just been splashed into his eyes. Only the two men's grip on his arms kept him off the floor.
"What did you do!?!" Sam screamed, trying to get free, to go to his brother. Watched in horror as Dean wilted under the onslaught of agony. Heart thudding in his chest, he prayed that Devon hadn't permanently blinded his brother.
"You sadistic coward!" Bobby hurled the words as if they were weapons, wanted to attack the young hunter with lethal intent.
Nodding to his hired companions to release their grip on their captive, Devon enjoyed the sight of the mighty Dean Winchester nearly falling to his knees. He smiled as Dean scrubbed at his eyes in vain, breath ragged with pain. He waited patiently as each of his men took up their position beside their other captives, there to ensure that neither Sam nor Bobby found a way to interfere in his experiment.
He wanted Dean to be left very much alone in the dark.
With the ease of a man used to handling knives with deadly purpose, Devon arced the knife up. Even as he sent its precision sharp blade slicing through Dean's coat sleeve, shirt and the flesh underneath as easily as if it were paper, he tauntingly whispered, "Polo." His words satisfyingly overlapping Dean's stunned hiss of pain.
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TBC
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Well that's where I leave our heroes. Thanks for reading and for the kind reviews on the last chapter!!
And when I thought about wishing everyone a Happy Easter, this verse came to me:
"O Lord, You have searched me and You know me." – Psalms 139:1. It's strange that He knows us better than anyone ever will…and loves us anyways, loved us enough to die on the cross for us. Amazing!
Have a Happy Easter everyone!
Cheryl W.
