AN: blah blah slow updates blah. I'm really sorry! (honest)
Anyway. Thanks SO much for reading this story so far, and for all your favourites, and alerts, and reviews and stuff. They're all wicked-cool.
I have a little more of this written, but other than that I won't have much time to writing, unfortunately! Final exam revision owns my life right now. It'll all be over by June 20th. Between now and then there'll be a little more, though, so don't worry too much! 'Journal' is finished if you're interested. It's another AU. *shameless self-promotion*
Cheers again!
"Bobby?"
". . . Sam. It's good to hear from you, boy,"
"And you," Sam replies quietly, and sniffs. It really is good to hear that gruff yet welcoming voice again: the main who'd raised him as much as his own father had, maybe more. He wondered, if it had been Bobby's life on the line in his dream rather than his father's, if it would have been even harder to resist the demon's offer. He didn't know what he'd do if it threatened Bobby. Other than pray, that is.
"Dean tells me you . . . Changed a bit, since I last saw you," Bobby states, obviously choosing his words carefully.
Sam curses the fact that Bobby feels the need to try and spare his feelings. If he hadn't killed Jake . . . That action weighed hard on his shoulders, despite the fact that he knew he'd be dead if he hadn't gone through with it. It was completely beside the point. But he would have at least died one hundred percent pure human-
"Boy? . . . I shouldn't have-" Bobby apologises. Sam closes his eyes, and sighs.
"No, it's fine. It's not your fault,"
"Well it ain't yours, either. We're gonna get those sons of bitches that did this to you, you hear?"
"Yeah," Sam admits quietly. He still feels sheepish and ashamed talking to Bobby, and receiving so much support from him. He's not sure he deserves it.
He wonders if it still counts as 'survivor's guilt' if you're the reason the others didn't survive.
"Good. You keep that in mind now, will you? . . . Here, let me speak to your brother again. Need to get the particulars off of him about that place they were keeping you,"
"Okay. Thanks, Bobby – just, thanks," He summarises.
"You're welcome, Sam. Always," Bobby assures him. He smiles weakly, even though he knows the older hunter can't see him.
He walks back inside the motel room, and hands the phone back to Dean, who takes it with a nod of thanks.
"Hey, old man . . . Huh? No, I won't fax 'em over, this ain't the nineties . . . Yeah, I know it still works . . . Sure, thanks. I'll email them. Like someone from the twenty-first century would," Dean finishes, and puts down the phone, rolling his eyes. Sam snorts in amusement at how exasperated he looks, as his brother starts to dutifully take pictures of all the symbols and sigils they noted down to upload and send to Bobby.
Sam can tell that his brother is still upset about his dream. He's irritable, and Sam thinks it might be because of the false hope the demon had dangled in front of them in the form of their absent father. He just wanted his hero back so badly, but there was no way he could do that at Sam's expense. This was completely unfair on him, in addition to having to look after his demonic little brother.
Sam had tried bringing this up earlier, only to have Dean snap back at him: "Unfair on me? Sam, I'm not the one with the cuts that burn when Holy water gets in them. I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about,"
Like always, Sam had wanted to reply. But he bit his lip and kept quiet.
Once he'd finished his task, Dean sat back on his bed, and stared at Sam, who was organising his clothes from the previous day on the radiator to dry. He wasn't really paying attention; he just picked at the threads, and smoothed out the material again and again. Dean sighed.
"Hey, Sammy?"
"Mmm?" His brother replied, his vacant expression still in place.
"It's Vegas week, and Bobby won't get back to us for a while, so as long as we steer clear of Caesar's Palace . . . Wanna hit some Casinos?"
Sam turned to him, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"I don't know, Sammy. You were on fire. You sure it wasn't anything to do with your visions?"
"Believe me, Dean," Sam replied as he followed his brother through the threshold back into their motel room, "You'd have known about it if I was having a vision,"
"Yeah, that's right – you always sort of, pass out," Dean agreed, flopping unceremoniously down onto his bed, face-first. Sam lingered by the door, closing it and biting his lip. He eyed his brother, wondering if this late hour, when Dean was still buzzing from their gambling success, was the right time to tell him about the whole 'my eyes go yellow when I'm having a vision' thing.
"Well, yeah, but . . . Not really," Sam fumbled, trying to tread carefully. He distracted himself with the troublesome task of slipping his boots off without undoing them.
Dean rolled over, a child-like look of confusion on his weary face. "Huh?"
"I sort of, uh – well, I had a vision that told me I was going to meet up with Azazel. I was in this couple's car, and I didn't even pass out, and it didn't hurt – but the woman she said something happened to my eyes. Luckily, she just thought she was seeing things," He added.
"They went black?"
". . . Yellow,"
Dean sat up. Slowly.
"Your eyes go yellow?" He asked in a quiet, dangerous voice.
Sam gulped. "Uh . . . Yeah? During visions . . . Not sure about the whole exploding light bulbs thing. You weren't really looking at me, you were kinda busy avoiding all the broken glass, or you could have forgotten, or-" He babbled.
"Your eyes go yellow when you're using your powers," Dean repeated in the same low voice, a stern expression on his face.
Sam just nodded this time, twisting his hands together in anxiety.
". . . So that whole time, you weren't using your powers? – Do you realise what this means?" Dean asked, folding his arms.
"W-what?" Sam asked, immediately cursing the fact that his nervousness had come out in his voice.
"We could have been winning bigger this whole time, if you'd just pulled your finger out and worn contacts!" Dean replied with a cheeky grin.
Sam threw his boot at his brother angrily as soon as he realised Dean had been messing with him the whole time.
"Dean! Quit being such a friggin' jerk!" Sam demanded, though his suppressed smile crept into his voice slightly.
"Aw, you know you love it, Sammy. C'mon – you've got an appointment with your girlfriend over there," Dean replied, indicating the laptop. Sam was still extremely annoyed with his brother, but he was right: Sam needed to check for emails from Bobby. If he managed to receive the damn jpegs in the first place.
He waited patiently for the computer to resume, and watched Dean. If he was really honest, he was glad of the joke: it meant that Dean knew he was on edge around a hunter; that Dean knew Sam was scared of him, and wanted to show him that there was nothing to be afraid of. Dean had never been the best at talking about his feelings, but he sure loved to joke about them. And that was fine with Sam, now that he knew Dean was cool with the whole 'yellow eyes of your Mom's killer' gig.
"Okay . . . Here it is. Bobby's explained what each collection of symbols means – after a long, long paragraph about how we should be grateful he's still up at 3am to cater to our every whim . . . He's given us the short version.
"So the first collection is – it's a spell for silence. So, soundproofing, or silencing someone, or both . . . You said in my memory, I couldn't talk?" Sam asked his brother, who nodded mutely, eager for the next symbol. Sam shifted slightly, and continued:
"The next one is for memory – so, forgetting. Which should explain a lot. Apparently, 'creatures not born of this world' are invulnerable to it – which means demons probably remember what went on in there, as they were kinda born in Hell – and why I keep forgetting.
"The next one is a protection sigil, against those disloyal to the one who drew the sigil. No enemies of the demon could enter or leave the room once the sigil had been drawn,"
"So Yellow-Eyes drew it, and only those who truly followed him could get in to see you?" Dean surmises.
"And I couldn't leave. Except – Bobby says it's partially crossed out. These lines here-" Sam indicated the image, and Dean leaned to see it briefly, "-negate it. I'm guessing they let me leave when they were done, even though I wasn't loyal to Azazel yet, obviously,"
"Bad move by them – guess they didn't know you were gonna be able to Nightcrawler your way out of there,"
Sam rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement all the same.
"This one's for protection against infection, this one's against excessive blood loss . . . This one . . . This is for polarising blood. Human and demon,"
"So that's how they made sure all the human blood came out, and only the demon blood got in?" Dean asked with a dubious expression.
"Demonic dialysis," Sam sat back, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I can't believe there's even a spell for that," Dean admitted.
". . . Wait," Sam mumbled, scrolling down, "Apparently . . . Apparently, this isn't a new thing. Back in the middle ages, witches used to try and fully infuse themselves with the blood of the demons they worshipped, because in small quantities it gave them 'God-like powers' above others . . . Get this: they all died, according to Bobby. Either they got the spell wrong, or their bodies rejected it,"
"So why would you be okay?"
"Well, for one, the demons knew what they were doing with the protection symbols . . . Then there's the blood Azazel fed me as a baby," Sam realised.
"It's been a part of you so long, your body has just accepted it," Dean realised.
Sam nodded slowly to himself, his mouth setting into a grim line.
"So if witches know about this spell – if we tell them about it, maybe we could find one who could reverse it?" Dean asked hopefully.
"I don't think so Dean – you see this symbol here?" Sam asked, scrolling down slightly to show his brother the one he was talking about. "It's for permanence, in the eye of the spell-caster . . . So the only way of reversing the spell is to perform the ritual backwards and have Azazel's blessing. Other than that . . ."
"It's for life," Dean finished curtly. He paused for a moment, then shook his head:"Nah, Sammy – we'll find a way. There's always a way-" Dean tried to reassure his younger brother.
"Dean," Sam interrupted, looking up from the computer screen with weary eyes at his deluded brother, "Face it. We're screwed. I'm screwed,"
Dean looked pensive for a moment, then fidgeted, his mouth opening and closing occasionally as he tried to think of an answer. Eventually, he scratched his head, and asked:
"D'you think there's a 24-hour liquor store near here?"
Yes. Of course there was a 24-hour mini mart that had a huge selection of alcohol available to buy at any time of day. This was Vegas.
The brothers strolled in, for all the world looking like two normal – if somewhat tired – guys, on their way home after a night of gambling.
The thing was, even though it was approaching 3a.m., they were reluctant to sleep: every time Sam fantasised about getting sleep, he would remember last night's nightmare, and suddenly be fully awake and alert, and reluctant to repeat it; Dean didn't want to sleep until Sam did, and yet every time he thought about suggesting getting some rest to Sam, he'd turn to his brother, and see that haunted expression in his eyes that told him that sleep would only make things worse.
They were caught in an insomniac cycle. Thus, the whiskey.
As Dean set his choice of whiskey on the counter for the clerk to scan, Sam smiled at her. She half-smiled back, one side of her lips quirking upwards. Her eyes were almost impossibly dark, as was her hair. She was pretty, he had to admit, even in a filthy red uniform polo shirt. He looked away, finding the eye-contact hard to maintain. He watched her hands, instead, as she held the bottle, and typed something into the register; as she opened the till with a ping, and carefully selected the correct bills for Dean's change, brushing against bills and coins as she made up the correct amount. He couldn't look away.
He watched her fingers, entranced: the fingernails were a chipped dark purple; her make-up was black around the eyes. She looked – no, felt – familiar.
How can someone feel familiar, and not look it? She sighed as she shut the till, and handed his brother the change. Sam remained standing at the counter for a moment, frowning down at her. She just looked back at him warily.
"C'mon, Sammy – it's rude to stare, dude," Dean said, springing him from his hypnotic trance with an elbow jab to his ribs.
"Oh, uh – I-" Sam stuttered, realising the girl was looking at him in amusement now, and blushing. But his words trailed off, as Dean began to walk out of the store. Sam frowned, opening his mouth to say something.
"What's wrong, Sammy? . . . Don't you recognise me?" The girl asked with a malicious smile that split her face. Her eyes flashed black.
Ruby.
His eyes widened, and in that moment he lunged after his brother with desperate a cry of, "Dean!-"
But when he saw Dean, he could see his brother convulsing where he stood, his back to Sam, facing the night; the bottle of whiskey slipped from his grip as he shook.
"Dean, what-?!" He began, approaching his brother quickly. But he stopped when he turned around.
Dean's eyes were black, too. Sam finally understood: this was an ambush. He hadn't seen the demon go into Dean, because the night had been so black – you'd never have been able to see the black cloud against that backdrop.
"Pleased to see me again, Sam?" Ruby asked, slapping her hand down onto Sam's shoulder, and making him jump. How did she get there so fast?!
"What about me?" The other demon asked, using Dean's voice.
"Y-you stay away from me!" He demanded, pointing at them both, and backing away slightly back into the store.
"Aww, but Sammy – we're old friends!" The demon in Dean said, approaching him boldly. Both demons grabbed him, an arm each, and though he was stronger now, their combined strength was too much for him to shake – especially with the shock he was experiencing.
"Old friends?" Sam asks, as he's led forcefully deeper into the store. He tries not to let the fact that Dean is possessed affect him, but it can't do anything but affect him in this situation. Something evil is in Dean's body. He finds that, yes, he does recognise it in some strange way, but can't place it. In any case, it's holding his arm so tight there'll be bruises in minutes.
Dean's body is hurting him. And Dean is trapped inside it.
"Oh, you know – aside from me being Dean now, we were pretty close once," The Dean-demon explained, before leaning in and sinisterly whispering, "Inseparable, in fact,"
". . . Meg," Sam growled, his eyes narrowing. She leaned back, grinning lecherously back at him as he glared at her.
"Ten outta ten, sugar," She replied, and Sam tried to ignore how freaking weird that sounded in Dean's voice. "You know, having sampled both Winchester brothers – I'd say I prefer you. I think it's cause you're taller,"
"Wow, lucky me," Sam quipped sarcastically, earning himself a forceful blow to the back of his head. He gritted his teeth against the pain.
"Doesn't matter now, though – Dean's mine for til I say so. And it's not as if I'm allowed to hurt you anymore. Pity," She considered out loud, and Sam grimaced. While he was happy he was out of bounds, he had to remember why that was.
He renewed his struggle as they dragged him into the store room of the mini mart. The floor was strewn with the corpses of the real employees, and standing in the centre was a man with his back to them.
"I'm so glad the meet and greet is over. I was starting to get a little bored," The man confessed, turning around and smiling at Sam, showing off his yellow eyes,"Hello, Sam,"
Azazel.
