Chapter 9 – Dean's Interlude: Lost Cause
A/N: Right now I wanna take the time to thank everyone who's following this twisted little tale of mine. Wanted to put this in with the other chapter, with Bela, Dark, and Kubrick, but Dean had other ideas. Young Mr. Winchester wanted the legendary Winchester angst to have a chapter all its own, so here it is. Dean also cusses up a blue streak. Don't say I didn't warn ya. Italics indicate thoughts and flashbacks.
"Ask me if there's water in hell." – Stolen -- I mean, borrowed from "Constantine." Also, the sentence about "a majorly dangerous day at the office" taken from "Fresh Blood."
Summary: Sam's got questions, and Dean's got answers. Only problem is, Sam might not like Dean's answers.
Disclaimer: Don't own Dean or Sam. Darn.
000
Sam can already tell he's sitting down, his back jammed up against something rock hard, slick and solid. He takes a deep hitching breath, breathes in and out normally, and that's when his nose and his brain begins to sort out the various smells in the air.
Burning gasoline. Melted rubber. Sharp smell of melted plastic. There's one smell that overrides all of the others. It's the smell of roasted pork, sweet and smoky.
That last one bothers the hell out of Sam. He's smelled it before, on jobs.
Burnt human flesh smells like pork.
His eyes blink open.
Something soft and feathery floats in the air right in front of his eyes. It brushes up against his skin. Sam raises one hand and bats at it. It takes him a moment to identify what it is, and even then, he refuses to believe it, but on one level he's mentally calculating just how many humans it would take to produce that much fine grey ash.
He gets to his feet on legs that feel as shaky and wobbly as a newborn colt's, bracing himself against the wall with his hands. His insides feel funny, his head complains bitterly about the change in position. He stands there a moment, feeling lightheaded.
The airspace over his head stretches out, light and dark shades of red in the sky, and that's definitely not right. The sun's a dim yellow disk in the sky overhead. Something darker glides underneath the clouds, twisting and turning just outside of Sam's line of sight. Sam feels like hunkering down low, wants to search for the nearest doorway, so he can get inside. He doesn't want to be out there, up high, wherever there is, but when he glances over at the edge he sees broad shoulders in a black fatigue jacket, dark blond spiky hair, faded blue jeans and work boots.
Dean.
Dean leans forward over the ledge of the observation platform with that easy devil may care grace of his. No wings. No golden eyes. The wind ruffles his hair slightly and Dean doesn't even seem to notice that he's mere inches away from a one hundred and ten story drop to the pavement.
"Dean…what…what is all this?" Sam croaks as he stumbles forward.
"It's the end of the world, dude. Well, it's a preview, anyway," Dean says casually, like he's discussing what's on the lunch menu and what gloriously unhealthy concoction he's going to have today.
"The end of the world?" Sam says stupidly.
Dean nods. "Hell's throwing a coming out party. My invite got lost in the mail but I got one anyway."
Sam eases forward and cautiously leans forward. He looks down and around, and his guts tighten painfully. Banners and trails of ash curve skyward all around them. They're up high on the observation deck of the Sears Tower. They've been to Chicago on business before but they didn't have time to sightsee. As usual, they had a job to do, they did it, and they left.
Business as usual. Life as usual.
There's no life left down there, not any, from what Sam can see. All the windows in all the buildings all around are blown out, black screaming mouths, stretched wide. Sheets of smoke and flames lazily curl upward from the street to the horizon, as far as the eye can see.
Down below Sam can see wrecked cars, trucks and buses scattered along the streets like some giant kid unended his or her toy box and decided to scatter everything all around in the mother of all temper tantrums.
Something's moving down there, among all the twisted metal and smoke and flame, and Sam doesn't want to see clearly, doesn't want to get a good look at whatever it is.
Dean's voice is deceptively light, casual. Anyone who didn't know him would say that he was uncaring, unimpressed.
Sam knows better.
"Day I died…I never got the chance to say goodbye to you, you know? Didn't have any problem holding up my end of the deal, but I did want to say goodbye, Sam. I did. I tried to hold on, but I couldn't."
Sam just nods. "I know you did."
Sam's seen Dean like this only a few times before. Last time they were here in Chicago, just before they went after Meg and her damned Daevas, just before Dad showed up.
Why do you think I take you everywhere with me, huh?
On that roadside, a year ago, right after they interred that zombie girl again and Dean wanted to burn rubber right then and there, couldn't wait to get away from the damned cemetery after he glanced over at Mary Winchester's grave.
What's dead should stay dead. When I came back…it wasn't right. It wasn't natural, and look what's come of it. Dad's dead. Dad's dead because of me. So tell me, what could you possibly say that would make that all right?
Dean's open, vulnerable, and ready to talk. He needs to talk. Sam can count the number of times that's happened in his life on his hands and still have plenty of fingers left over, so he just nods and shuts up.
And listens.
"They can't do this without me," Dean nods downwards. "Leastways, that's what they tell me. They got the bright idea once I went downside." He leans forward, stares at the smoke and flames, at the ribbons of ash, then shrugs his broad shoulders.
Doesn't matter, that gesture says. No big deal, just another day at the office. Another majorly dangerous day at the office. No sweat. No prob.
"It's not a united front down there like we thought. Good thing, too, 'cause humans would be in deep shit if it was. They fight among themselves down there. It's like a friggin' soap opera, y'know? Twenty four seven. All the damn time.
"Anyway. Crossroads Bitch sold me to this one group. Don't know what her original plan for me was, but somethin' about me scared her. Couldn't wait to get rid'a me, so she did.
"Next thing I knew I'm doin' a damn American Idol audition, only instead of three judges must'a been three million of the scaly hell bound bastards. I didn't get to go to Hollywood, Sammy, but I must've passed…"
Sam remembers how Dean's mind works, the intuitive connections Dean makes, the way his brain jumps from one subject to another, seemingly without any connection. Doesn't make any sense to anyone who doesn't know Dean, but Sam's known him all his life, so he's not thrown for a loop by what Dean does and says next.
Dean laughs.
It's a short, humorless bark of laughter. His eyes go flat for a moment, then he immediately brightens up and even smirks a little. "Ask me if there's water in hell."
Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. "Well? Is there?"
Dean nods. "Bet your ass there is. It's cold. Cold, slick, and slimy. Doesn't feel right against your bare skin. Bastards tried to drown me in a pool of black water." He places both palms flat against the cool marble and stares at his outstretched fingers. "The wings bothered them, y'know? They didn't like the wings. Or the feathers. That must've fucked with the design they had in mind for me. Bat wings, or something. Hell, I don't know. I kept having flashes, weird trippy stuff. Past lives…"
"You betrayed me, boy," Azazel growled roughly. "Sided with Heaven against your own flesh and blood…"
"Saw shit I'd only ever seen before in history books, or on the 'net." Dean tenses up slightly, and for a moment Sam senses that he's on right on the edge in more ways than one. "Saw you, Dad and me on the road. I even saw Mom, before…" another small shrug "…you know…"
Then Dean grins a little, looks genuinely happy, the first time Sam's seen him like that in days. "Hey, you remember that tenth grade teacher of mine, Mrs. Paulsen? When Dad and I were hunting that Sasquatch up in Michigan and Dad had to come in for a parent-teacher conference because of me? Man, she was really something. Alice, I think her name was. She wore leopard skin underwear underneath that plain brown suit of hers, Sammy. Had a rose tattoo on her left…"
Sam rolls his eyes in mock weariness. "Dude, you're getting off topic."
"Oh. Yeah. Right." Dean's smile fades back down to that curiously blank look he always gets whenever he talks about something he'd rather not talk about. "They finally decided to get their money's worth out of me. I still don't know what they paid that bitch for me. Hope she fucking chokes on whatever it was. I was told that I needed to be reminded of my place."
Sam flinches a little, and Dean seems not to notice. "I needed a few minor adjustments before they could use me." He could be talking about giving the Impala a tune-up. "That was how I met The Fixer. Chick has a lot of names. Tia Maleficum. She Who Devours In the Pit. Damn bastards love to hear themselves talk, and they do love to give themselves names."
Her skin was smooth, midnight blue. Her eyes were bright red. She didn't have any feet, and she floated above the ground. That was the worst. Dean didn't think that would have bothered him, but it did.
Oh yeah, that and the fact that the bitch grinned at him like he was her long-lost favorite plaything.
She was surrounded from head to toe by this long flowing drape of inky black smoke thet flowed around her, and the hem of her dress (?) curled and flexed like tentacles. He saw what looked like mouths down there.
Slim fingers stroked the side of his face, and Dean felt like screaming. He'd promised himself he wouldn't, but later on he did...
"She fixed me all right. Fucked me up but good. They staked me out on the ground. She didn't come at me with the claws and the knives like I thought she would. What this bitch did was worse. She talked to me. Dad taught us some ways to ignore mental torture, you know? But nothing I did worked. I couldn't keep her damn voice out of my head…."
You're such a failure, Dean. A magnificent failure…
Fuck you, bitch. Get out of my head. Get out of my head right fuckin' now. I will kill you when I get loose, I swear it…
Such a scared, angry little boy. That's all you are. But you're a scared angry little boy with lethal combat skills. You could be soo useful to us, but you're afraid you'll fail at that, too…
"I tried to block her voice out, dude. I tried. Sometimes it felt like my whole body was on fire. Pins and needles underneath my skin. After a while it felt like my brain was going numb. After a while her voice sounded like my voice…"
My own damn voice...
I hate them both. Sam and Dad. All those things I gave up for them. Every time I got hurt. And for what? To keep a family together? What family? Lost that when Mom died…
You're right, my little one. You're so right. Doesn't it feel good to admit that now?
Dean feels his lips move, hears his voice, feels the words as they come out of his mouth, but it's not me, it's not me, I wouldn't say those things, I wouldn't…
And a part of him knows that's just not true.
"I don't know how long it went on. Days. Weeks, maybe." Dean glances up and sees the pained look on Sam's face and seems to realize what he's just said. He shakes his head. "Sammy, don't. I know that look of yours. I'm not sayin' all this to make you feel guilty. I just want you to understand. Wasn't your fault. None of it. I knew what I was doing when I made the deal. You didn't fail me. You never did."
"What did…" Sam's surprised he sounds calm. "What did she do to you?"
"She reached inside and pulled him out of me."
Sam blinks in confusion. "Pulled…who?"
"Remember when I used to read Peter Pan to you, Sam? When we were kids, you liked the part about Pan trying to sew his shadow back on. She pulled my shadow out of me. That was what they were after all along. Hurt like a son of a bitch. She laughed while she did it."
"If I don't get to him first, and you ever meet this bastard, you drop him. Drop him like a damn bad habit, bro'. Permanently. He's a handsome devil. Looks just like me, and he'll use that against you if he can. Don't let him. He's a part of me. He's every bad thought I ever had while I was alive. Think of it, Sammy. We all have our dark spots, and here was mine, with Dad's training, leather wings, and all the rage I felt because our family got screwed over."
The air up there on the rooftop is warm, but Sam tries not to shudder as a cold chill rakes its way up his spine. Months before Dean died they hunted a foul-tempered fire demon that was bound to a factory. The good news was the factory was deserted; the bad news was it was a popular hang-out for teenagers, so naturally several of 'em got parboiled before Sam and Dean showed up. After they put its fire out permanently the boys stumble/walked into a bar, sat down at a table and ordered beers and hamburgers. Several of the local yokels at a table nearby spotted them and even though he was dead tired and the jukebox was blasting "Hillbilly Deluxe" Sam could still hear what they were saying.
"Aw, ain't that cute…"
"...pretty damn boys..."
"…that one with the lips, I betcha he's sweet..."
Dean raised his head and silently dropped his gaze on the mouthy bastards like a gunsight. It was The Look.
The Look promised much asskicking, and at the end a slow, painful death.
It worked. The mouthy bastards shut the hell up. Instantly.
Dean scowled as he looked at the soot on his fingers. They'd tried to clean up in the gas station as well as they could. Dean rubbed his fingers together and muttered, more to himself, "Waste of friggin' space. We do the job and nearly get bar-b-qued, and for what? I tell ya, Sam, next time we should just let their sorry asses burn."
"Afterwards he went home with her and I was kicked to the curb. He was the prince, and I was just another fucked up freak.
"They didn't lock me up. Well, I was down in Hell, right? Where was I gonna go? I found places to hide. Couldn't fly, not at first, but I could manage. I climbed up to some of the higher places in the rocks. That high up, all the noise and screaming goes down to background noise. Didn't even notice the sulfur smell after a while."
Sam was pretty sure there was a lot more that Dean wasn't telling. He was getting the Reader's Digest version. Whatever had really happened down there was a hundred times worse.
"Some of the damn demons tried to sneak up on me.
"Sometimes I wasn't fast enough. Whatever they did always healed in time for the next go round. I was fair game. So I moved around. I stuck to the high places. Higher you go, the thinner the border between earth and hell. I saw holes up there, in the sky, the roof. They'd close up before I could get to them, so I practiced. Got better flying. I had those damn wings and I couldn't get rid of 'em, so I may as well use 'em, right?
"One day, I saw you. I heard you. And you, you big dumbass, you went on hunts by yourself. Tried to get yourself killed. Because of me." Dean turns to look directly at Sam, and there's anger in his eyes, but there's sadness too. "That Ruby girl ditched you as soon as I left. That was when I knew I had to get the hell out of there.
"I was ready the next time one of those holes opened up. Only thing was, my shadow followed me out when I made my move.
"Once I got topside everything got pretty blurry. Don't remember much. Blue skies. Blood, screaming. I saw Mom again. Tried to touch her but I couldn't hold on. I kept seeing you, Sam. Heard you. You were sad and pissed off at me for leaving, and I couldn't blame you for that.
"I saw it when Gordon came for you at Bobby's place. Tried to make it there in time but I ran into my shadow, and I mean that literally. I hated flying. Fucking hated it, and here I was playing chicken with my dark side a thousand feet off the ground. I didn't back off, and neither did he.
"I hit the ground pretty hard. Last thing I remember was this hunter. Crazy looking chick. Laughed like a friggin' hyena. She and her three buddies jumped me and I couldn't fight them off."
Didn't want to.
Dean stares straight ahead, at the ruins of Chicago, and Sam feels a small pit forming in his stomach. Dean's leading up to something, and Sam knows it. It's something he's familiar with, something he's feared and hated all his life. Sam calls it The Speech, he's heard various forms of it at one time or another, and he hates it with a passion.
Dean turns to look Sam square in the eyes. "You have to let me go."
Ah, God. Sam feels his stomach lurch down around his ankles.
"For good this time. I'm fucked up, Sam. More than I was before. You can't fix me, and you can't save me. You gotta let me go. You gotta live your life this time around."
Not again. Not again. "I'm not going to bail on you, Dean. I'm not."
Dean's shoulders actually sag. "You're not listening to me. Why the hell won't you listen to me? I'm not your brother anymore. I'm not safe to be around. I could look at you before, and I could remember. I could remember who I am. What I am. I'm hanging on by a thread now, bro', and when we go back to Bobby's I won't be there all the time..."
There's something else. Someone else that Dean won't mention. Sam could always tell whenever Dean was being evasive. Big brother's not always as slick as he thinks he is, and Sam gets it. "Who's Adin, Dean? Where did he come from?"
Dean shakes his head dazedly. He looks trapped, somehow, bewildered. It's not a look that Sam's used to seeing on Dean, and it scares the hell out of Sam.
"I can't tell you that..." Dean pushes himself away from the ledge. He stumbles as he does it, suddenly clumsy, weak and awkward. Sam steps up to him and catches him by the shoulders.
Dean doesn't even startle at Sam's touch. "Who's Adin, Dean?" Sam repeats himself, more gently. "Who is he?"
Dean blinks. Slowly. Sam sees the change in his eyes, sees that bright green slowly fade, then brighten to that damn golden yellow.
"Do I need to draw you a map, Sam?" That smooth deep voice drawls lazily. The inflection is different. It's Dean, but it's not. "Are you really that damn stupid?"
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Will update later on this week.
