I'm terribly sorry for the wait on this. I've been painting the house, and it pretty much has monopolized my time. But thanks for your patience...please review, it helps prod my writing mojo! And Salty, there's one line in here for ya...wonder if you'll see it...
Sam screamed, horror overcoming machismo as he watched Colleen's body disintegrate in a cloud of red. The sound was a shock, the noise of breaking bones and bursting organs and splashing blood. The train's whistle screamed along in inanimate shock, and the brakes threw showers of white sparks to mingle with the misty blood. Sam stumbled backward as a spray of blood speckled his face, salty on his lips.
A howl of sheer anguish sent a shiver up Sam's spine and he turned to see Elijah on his hands and knees, his face contorted in a wail. Dean crawled away from him, scrambling in the dirt, pain in his eyes. Sam sprinted to Dean's side and grabbed him by the elbow, hoisting him to his feet. But when they turned to flee, they found themselves staring down the barrel of Elijah's pistol.
Tears were streaming down the man's face in a torrent, but he didn't seem to notice. His lips were curled back in a feral snarl and there was rage in his eyes. "You!" His voice was low, dangerous. "You damned fools…you killed my daughter…"
Dean opened his mouth to retort angrily, but Sam gripped his wrist and silenced him with a sideways glance. Dean glanced to the side and saw several faces, young girls and boys mostly, peeking at them from around the corners of buildings, from behind vehicles. All were wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring at the spectacle in front of them.
"No." Sam held up one hand, though his eyes never left the gun. "No, we didn't. It was an accident. We didn't do that."
"You did!" Elijah's voice cracked into the higher reaches and spittle flew from his mouth. "All we want is for people to leave us alone! If you would have just left us alone my daughters would still be alive!" Anger overwhelmed him and he slapped his own head with another scream. "You sonsabitches wouldn't mind your damn business! It's your fault!"
Sam didn't need to say anything, just keep his hand on Dean's shoulder. Three light but noticeable changed in the pressure of his fingers, one, two, three, and both suddenly burst into action, rolling away from one another and to their feet. Sam dashed forward, shoulder low, aiming for Elijah's midsection. The retort of a gunshot cracked through the air and Sam gasped as the stinging burn of a bullet graze blazed in his arm. He stumbled, falling to one knee, and recovered by rolling through the fall back to his feet. As he did, he caught sight of Dean pelting toward Elijah and catching him by the midsection. The gun went off again as the two fell to the ground, a cloud of dust rising to obscure their movements as they wrestled.
Sam pushed himself back to his feet, swallowing down the nausea from the pain in his shoulder, and started to stumble toward the brawl. He glanced backward, making sure that none of the other cult members were sneaking behind him. When he returned his eyes to the front, he froze.
Elijah was kneeling over Dean, his face twisted into a mask of fury. He had the pistol pressed to the center of Dean's forehead, just over the bridge of the nose. Dean was stone still, eyes staring up at Elijah, not daring to twitch. The cold metal burned a ring against his forehead and he blinked slowly, willing his breath to slow, forcing himself to radiate calm. Elijah's finger twitched on the trigger and Dean had to suppress a wince. One misstep, one mistake, and Dean's brain would be splattered across the dirt.
"Not another step," Elijah hissed towards Sam, though his eyes never left Dean. "Ya'll have caused enough trouble. You outsiders killed two of ours. You ain't gonna kill any more."
Anger grabbed at Sam's chest. He leaned slightly forward, his mouth curling into a snarl. "Most fathers would be mourning now…they'd be devastated about losing their daughters. You're standing here casting judgment, when you're the one who caused their deaths in the first place. You're the one who cut Persephone from wrist to elbow, you're the one who didn't help her while she bled to death."
Elijah whipped his arm back and belted Dean across the temple with the gun, opening a crimson gash in the skin. Dean crumpled to the side with a sharp groan, and Sam took several steps toward Elijah. Elijah brought the gun to bear on Sam, his hand shaking. Sam froze, waiting for the burning bite of another bullet, but then noticed that Elijah's gaze was fixed somewhere over his left shoulder, and his mouth was formed into a trembling 'o'. Sam slowly turned, keeping his eyes on Elijah, then cast a quick glance over his shoulder.
Colleen and Persephone were standing there, hands flat at their sides, staring narrow-eyed at Elijah. Their pale faces were dark with anger, but they were unmarked by the wounds that killed them. Sam looked back toward Elijah, watched as the man's face paled to a pallor of terror, and as a blur of red welled in his eyes, and twin tears of blood tracked slowly down his cheeks. Trails of blood oozed from his nostrils, dripping to line his lips with gruesome color. Elijah gave a wet hiccup, then looked down stupidly as blood splashed from his mouth to paint the front of his shirt. The gun in his hand wavered then fell as his fingers went numb, and he dropped to one knee.
Sam dashed forward and scooped up the gun, then skidded to Dean's side. He pulled Dean upright, ignoring his brother's attempts to bat his hands away. Sam grabbed him under the arms and started dragging him back away from Elijah and the specters of the dead girls.
Elijah didn't speak, and neither did his daughters. They just stared at one another, until Elijah lurched and another gout of blood spurted from his mouth. He tilted sideways, eyes never leaving the girls, and sprawled limply in the dirt, gurgling quietly deep in his throat. He stared, jaw slack, and a bubble of blood lingered on his lips before bursting with a wet, pink, pop. His chest heaved once, and then sank with the wilting finality of his last breath.
Sam glanced around quickly as movement caught his eye. The silent spectators who had watched from the periphery crept closer, but they ignored the brothers and stared wide-eyed at the blood-soaked body of their leader. Sam tucked the pistol down the back of his jeans and hauled Dean to his feet. He supported his brother's weight against his hip and stumbled toward the stockade fence, though he wasn't sure what he would do once he got there.
But then Sam heard footsteps behind him and he turned quickly, his free hand snatching the pistol from his waistband. He found himself staring down the barrel at a young man, patchy with acne and downy facial hair. The teenager looked back at him with huge, wide eyes, then stretched his hand out toward Sam. In his palm lay a set of keys, Dean's keys. Cautiously, Sam reached out and plucked the keys from his hand, and quietly said, "Thank you." The boy didn't respond, just blinked silently, and pointed away toward the trees. "The car is over there?"
A nod was the only reply.