11 – Five Bodies

Dean figured that that could have gone better, but it could have gone so much worse.

He was one big ball of pain, so you'd think he couldn't possibly hurt more, but Dean had learned one thing through these many years of monster hunting, and that was there was no ceiling on pain. You could think you were suffering the worst pain you had ever felt, and then five minutes later, it would be topped.

Now Dean had expected more pain. He knew continuing his show of defiance would get him punished, and he figured maybe he'd get knocked out. Getting thrown into the cars was way better, and way worse. Landing hurt. It really hurt. He was sure he was cut by jagged edges of metal on his back and arms, slices that burned, and he came down hard on metal, and his head swam. He felt his consciousness slowly slipping away, falling through his fingers like sand. The more he tried to hang on, the more he couldn't. Losing consciousness sounded nice, really, like having a nap.

But he couldn't now, and he had to fight it. So he bit into his cheek. No, he gnawed. He felt the flesh between his teeth, and tasted a fresh gout of blood in his mouth, and the pain was sharp and cleansing. His consciousness came back at a crawl, but it was sticking around, so that was something.

Lying in metal rubble, bleeding like he'd been massaged by a cheese grater, he still felt lucky, as there were springs and screws and wires all around him, and he was able to pick the cuffs on him quite easily, even though his hands were shaking, possibly from the pain. Dean had to figure out a way to stand quietly, without causing a crushed car cascade, but he pulled it off. He felt a little woozy, but it passed.

Now the problem of what he was supposed to do. Sam and Bobby had led the demons deeper into the stacks, which was great, as Bobby had demon booby traps out there. But while it would hurt them, it wouldn't kill them. It may not even hurt them for long. What could he do?

It didn't help that Dean found it hard to think right now. His entire head felt like an infected boil forever on the verge of popping, but refusing to do so. Could he assume Alastor's vessel was gone? High powered demons had a tendency to burn their hosts out fast. If he could, he knew how to distract him if not hurt him. Oh, fuck it. He'd accept that death on his head if he could save Sam and Bobby.

Dean paused to spit out another mouthful of blood, and then staggered into the work shed. He hastily made what he needed, and picked up one of Bobby's hidden guns, as well as a hidden bottle of holy water. Bobby had been a hunter too long to be caught unaware.

Dean started down the stacks, following the sound of voices, starting to feel detached from his own body. But he focused, one foot in front of the other, one job to do. All he had to do was make sure Sammy and Bobby were safe, then he could rest.

Finally he tuned into what the voices were saying, and realized Sammy knew where the blade was. He didn't put it in the basement? He knew he'd heard the front door open! Not that that did any good now.

Dean heard one of Bobby's booby trap deploy, heard the agonized scream of the demon who took it, but it sounded like Alastor was still on his feet, and still in charge. It was a nice try, but it fell just a little short.

Dean lit the rag stuffed in the bottle of gasoline and alcohol – with a slurry of salt at the bottom – and came around the corner, getting a good view of Alastor's back. Dean threw the Molotov cocktail, and then pulled his gun and shot the loose hench demon in the back of the leg.

Alastor started to turn, but the bottle impacted right on his back, broke open, and set him on fire, as the hench demon dropped to his knees, and instantly regretted it. Normally damage to the vessel meant nothing to a demon, but it was hard to stand with just the one knee, and the pain was always startling.

Being on fire broke Alastor's concentration, and Bobby dropped to his own knees. He was within reach of the hench demon, who was cursing his wounded leg. "Head's up," Dean yelled, and tossed the bottle of holy water. Bobby caught it, and before the hench demon knew what was happening, Bobby had pulled off the cap and forced the water down the demon's throat.

Alastor made a hand gesture that seemed to put the flames out, while the hench demon apparently had had enough and vacated his damaged vessel in a vomited plume of spectral black smoke. Alastor ignored that, and turned to face Dean. "You little shit," he growled. His hair had burnt off, and most of his skin was blackened and crispy on his face and neck, but the demon within was still okay. No damage to the vessel was going to affect him in any respect. He held out his hand, and Dean felt like someone had just reached into his chest, grabbed his heart, and squeezed. He dropped to his knees, unable to breathe, or move, and the pain was terrible. Again, a new low had been reached. It was like he had a spiky, hot metal ember in his chest, and it was radiating poison. Black splotches contracted and exploded in front of his eyes. He still thought he saw Sam throw something to Bobby, but he couldn't see what it was.

Well, this had seemed like a good idea at the time. But then again, what did he expect fighting with a head injury?

For a second, Bobby thought that Alastor was one of those pyromancer demons, as he seemed to just burst into flames. But then the force holding Bobby released, and there was a gunshot that caused the hench demon closest to him to drop. If he didn't know it was Dean before then, he did now. Dean seemed to believe "when in doubt, take out the knees", which was actually fucking brilliant. Demons couldn't give a shit about gunshots, but leg injuries? Completely the worst, even for a demon. It was like having a car with one tire missing. In theory, still drivable, but what a nuisance.

"Head's up," Dean said, and tossed him a bottle. Bobby recognized it as one of his stash of holy water bottles.

Bobby popped off the cap, and jammed it into the mouth of the hench demon, holding it in there with both hands as holy water gurgled down his throat. He grabbed Bobby's already injured arm hard, giving him a bewildered, angry stare, but he was already smoking and burning.

Bobby did his best not to stare at Dean directly, but out of the corner of his eye. He looked worse than before, like a refugee from the Evil Dead. How was he conscious? And when and why did he construct a Molotov cocktail?

Not that he was complaining. Alastor put it out, but turned his wrath on Dean, ignoring them. Bobby saw Sam digging beneath a small pile of hub caps, and he pulled out the warded box. That seemed both wildly obvious and crazy smart. They'd search trunks and glove boxes before it'd occur to them to look through a stack of hubcaps.

Sam glanced at him, and Bobby nodded, holding out his hands since the demon being waterboarded with holy water decided to blow this pop stand. Sam tossed him the box, and he caught it, ignoring the twinge in his injured arm. He'd had worse, and knowing how his life had gone, he'd probably have even worse in the near future. He opened the box, pulled out the knife, and figured what the fuck. It sent whatever it killed to Hell, right? Bobby was curious how it would work on a demon.

He stood, and knew Alastor was turning, probably sensing the blade, but it was too late. He stabbed him right through the heart, punching the blade through to the hilt. "Get outta my yard, asshole," Bobby added, stepping back.

Alastor finished turning, and gazed at him with angry eyes, but they were also slightly empty, and he still smelled of burned hair, meat, and gasoline. Bobby figured it was going to be a long time before he grilled again. Alastor opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, he popped out of existence. The knife was left behind, and fell to the dirt.

The demon who'd been doused in the holy water booby trap smoked out, probably because he knew a lost cause when he saw it. Sam came over, asking, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Bobby lied. Goddamn, his arm hurt. But he couldn't complain, especially not with bloody horror Dean in view. When Sam saw his brother, he gasped in horror.

"Still with us, kiddo?" Bobby asked.

Dean nodded. "Hell yeah. We kicked their ass. But –" Whatever else he was going to say was lost, because Dean then fell forward, faceplanting in the dirt.

"Go call 9-1-1," Bobby told Sam, who ran off to do just that, while Bobby went to see if the demon vessels were still alive. He was really not looking forward to explaining this scene to emergency personnel, but he didn't have much choice. Who knew being a hunter would involve so much lying?

At least if he ever decided he had to return to civilian life, he had a built in job as a used car salesman.

Bobby made up such an extravagant lie about a robbery attempt, Sam was sure they were going to know he was lying and arrest him on the spot. But they never did.

They bought it, of course, probably because it was easier to believe than the reality of the situation. Maybe Bobby sold the hell out of it, he really didn't know, as Sam rode in the ambulance with Dean when the EMTs took him to the hospital.

Dean didn't regain consciousness on the ride, and the med techs were slightly baffled by some of his injuries, but Sam played so upset that they didn't ask him many questions. Not that he wasn't actually upset, he just heightened it to avoid questions he couldn't answer. Like why his brother looked like he had been beaten with fist shaped lead pipes, and had what looked like primer paint in gashes on his back. They were just going to have to live with some mysteries.

Dean was hurt fairly badly, and Sam had no idea where he found the strength to stay on his feet as long as he did. He had some internal bleeding, but hey, whenever you were a demon punching bag, that was bound to happen. Sam was hoping he'd become conscious just so he could ask why the hell he firebombed Alastor - although, to be fair, that actually did distract him – but Dean was out, and since they took him into surgery, it was going to be a while before he could ask.

Bobby eventually joined him in the waiting room, his arm in a sling now too. As Bobby himself pointed out, they were a matching pair. Sam caught him up on Dean's diagnosis, and while they sat with their cans of soda and cups of weak coffee, he decided he just had to know. "Alastor's gonna come back, isn't he?"

Bobby shrugged. "Dunno. I mean, his boss ain't gonna be pleased to see him returning without the knife, and once I figure out how to destroy the blade, he'll have nothing to come back for, will he? Except revenge. But let's hope Hell keeps him busy."

"Think you can get the anti-destruction sigil off it?"

"I know some people who are born to break shit. Hopefully we'll come up with something."

Sam nodded, looking down at his soda can. "How did you know the blade would work on him?"

"Didn't. But what the hell, right?" He sighed heavily. "How the hell are we all still alive just takin' random stabs in the dark like this?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe we actually are lucky. Or something's looking out for us."

"Both options sound equally terrible." Bobby took a sip of his coffee. "Dean's gonna be okay."

"I know. He usually is." As Dean liked to say, he was too irritating to die. Sam found himself in the position of not wanting to ask a question, but having to all the same. "Why did Alastor decided to make Dean pay for Dad's sins, and not me too? Or instead?"

He exhaled heavily and shook his head. "Can't answer that one. Who knows why demons do half the shit they do." Bobby gave him a sidelong glance. "Gonna tell me why you hid the blade in a different place?"

Damn. Sam wished he'd had more time to think of a convincing lie. "I just had this feeling it shouldn't be in the house. I can't explain it, really."

Bobby studied him a moment, like maybe he was going to ask some uncomfortable follow ups. But Sam saw in his eyes as he made some internal decision to let this one go. Sam had no idea why, but he was grateful. "Good thinking."

Sam wondered if this meant he was psychic, since he saw what was going to happen, but since he saw it and changed it … what did that mean exactly? Maybe it was just some freak occurrence, and it would never happen again.

But why was Alastor saving him for something? He knew he was. There was no way in hell – no pun intended - that was good. What did it mean? Sam got this sinking feeling that turned his guts to lead. He was doomed, wasn't he? He always had this weird sense he was, even though Dean was always there to deny it. Maybe the biggest difference between him and Dean was Dean seemed to volunteer to be doomed when he didn't necessarily have to be. He would never understand that about his brother. Amongst other things. If only to break the silence, Sam asked, "Why did Dean Molotov cocktail Alastor?"

Bobby chuckled. "'Cause your brother's kinda crazy sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

They sat in silence for a while, waiting for the doctor to return and tell them Dean made it through okay, and Sam realized the first chance he got to get away from this demon haunted life, he was going to fucking take it. And if Dean had any brains at all, he'd join him.