11 - Let Them Grind
While it was all kicking off upstairs, Sam had managed to get a hold of Melanie on the satellite phone, and he dutifully reported she sounded pissed off. She could join the club.
By the time Sam had joined them, Cecelia had kicked throw rugs over the ruin of Clay and his other, even deader friend, although Sam had seen such violence before. But Dean didn't tell her that, because he sensed it was a terrible thing to say, as well as have happened. Dean had also managed to stop dry heaving, which felt like a personal accomplishment. Mainly because it hurt. It was like he was being punched in the stomach from the inside out, and his stomach already hurt from being in too many fights tonight.
Dean headed outside to clear his head, and remembered there were more dead bodies out here. Fantastic. He found a space in front of the house where he couldn't see the bodies or smell them so much, and sat there with his head in hands, trying to mentally will his stomach to just fucking stop it. He'd killed before. Yes, they were technically monsters, but wasn't Clay a monster? Simply a human one. But it felt different, and he didn't like the feeling. Could a soul hurt?
He had no idea how long he'd been out there when Cecelia came out and joined him. She sat down next to him, and only then did he notice she had a bottle of bourbon with her. Cecelia had also taken a moment to wash the blood off her face, which was good. Dean knew how itchy old blood could get. And speaking of which, he must have had some on his face and neck, because he could feel it now.
"This is not something you should do regularly, okay? I just think you probably need it right now." She took off the cap, took a swig, and handed the bottle to him.
Had he ever had bourbon before? He wasn't sure. But he took the bottle with a nod of gratitude, and gulped until his stomach burned with it. It wasn't bad, and he was sure he'd had it before, maybe mixed with something else. He sighed, and handed the bottle back. "Thanks."
"Louie is all tied up, and Sam is keeping an eye on him, but we probably don't need to watch him. He's done. He has the brain cells to realize he lost, and best case scenario is years of imprisonment."
"It helps that the ringleader had his brains blown out right in front of him."
"That didn't hurt, no." She was quiet a moment, before she said, "I'm sorry you had to do that, Dean."
He shook his head, unsure why he was doing it. "It was Clay's choice, really. He knew what would happen if he went for the gun. Or maybe he thought I was just a stupid kid who wouldn't shoot him."
"I think from the start they underestimated you, which is the dumbest thing anyone could ever do. You're amazing, you know that?"
Dean kept shaking his head, and for some reason, tears were welling in his eyes. Why? Hadn't he been humiliated enough? "I'm really not. I just did what I had to do." She'd put the bottle on the ground between them, and he snatched up and tried to gulp down the lump in his throat. It wasn't working, but he felt, if he kept doing this, at some point it would.
He had to stop to take a breath, and that's when he realized he was starting to feel light headed. Too much booze on an empty stomach. He knew the feeling well. Dean put the bottle down and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes with his forearm. "Am I just another kind of monster?"
"Oh honey, no," Cecelia said, putting her arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Either she smelled liked blood, or he did. Oh hell, they both probably did. "I'm sorry I had to put you in that position, but you saved my life, you know."
"See, I know that. So I can't figure out why this is bothering me so much."
She kissed him on the forehead, and gave his back a comforting rub. It felt good to be this close to someone and not be in a fight with them. It had been a while since that had happened. Too goddamn long. "Because this is too damn heavy for you, as it should be. Put the blame on me."
The booze was making him feel warm and kind of numb, so the tears were drying up. Dean welcomed this turn of events, and tried to lean in to the alcohol. He wiped away the residual tears and snot with the back of his hand. "No, 'cause it's not your fault either. You didn't know these greedy dumbfucks were gonna turn up and destroy everything. I mean, this is an example of living by a sword and dying by it, right? Except the swords are guns, and we're all monster hunters, which couldn't be more ridiculous if it tried."
"Yeah. But you shouldn't be in the monster hunting game."
"I'm nineteen."
"When did you start?"
That shouldn't have been the poser that it was. Maybe it was the bourbon, because he would swear this question had never been that hard to answer before. "I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen?"
"Dean." She said it somewhat sternly. She knew he was lying to him.
"Well, what counts as hunting really? I mean ..."
"How long have you trained?"
It wasn't an unanticipated question, but he still found it difficult to answer. He wanted to say ever since Mom died, but was that true? Maybe it only felt like that. When was the first time Dad took him out shooting? "Seven maybe? Eight? What counts as training?"
She exhaled heavily, like she'd been punched in the stomach. "That long?"
"I may be wrong."
"Yeah, I'm afraid you're lying to up your age." She rubbed her eyes, which looked a bit teary too. She had had one fucking horrific night, and somehow it wasn't over yet. "I'm sorry, Dean."
"For what?" As far as he could tell, she'd done nothing wrong, certainly not to him.
"Everything." And after that cryptic comment, she grabbed the bourbon bottle, and stood up. "Come on. You probably want to get cleaned up before Melanie and her people show up."
"Do I?" He looked down at himself. Considering he hadn't been shot, there was a startling amount of blood on him. Also dirt, which made sense, and was still less startling. It was funny, in a dark way, that none of the blood belonged to the man he killed.
But she was right. Not only did he need to clean up, but he needed to shape up, as he couldn't let Sammy see how wrecked he was. Tonight had been rough enough. He didn't need to know about the rest of this shit. If he could carve him out a little peace of mind, he had to try. He owed him that much, if nothing else.
Sam knew this night would end in a bloodbath, one way or another, but there was no getting around how fucking ugly it all was.
He did wonder why they even attempted to cover up the dead in the living room. Blood had soaked through the cloth and made it cling to the shapes beneath. It wasn't so bad with the corpse on the far side, who clearly died from a chest wound, but the one nearest the kitchen had a deformed, slightly deflated head. It made Sam a bit ill to look at the weird shape, and he had to look away quickly, because his mind would try and guess what the skull must have looked like, and it was nauseating. It must have shattered when hit by a bullet, like an elephant had stamped on it.
Yep, he was done thinking about that.
There was a living member of the group, who seemed to know he was lucky to still be alive better than anyone else. His hands were bound behind his back - Sam had no idea why, but Cecelia had a drawer full of plastic zip ties in the kitchen - and he was sitting on the end of the sofa, where one of the guys Dean beat up earlier was still laying on it, out cold. Or asleep. He made vague snoring noises from time to time.
The conscious guy wouldn't meet Sam's gaze, and actually tried apologizing once Cecelia left, saying they didn't know there were kids here, blah blah blah, which led Sam to snap, "Shut up." Murder was okay as long as only adults were involved? He wasn't interested in making this man feel better about his life choices or homicide.
There was also another guy, in - of all insulting places - Cecelia's and Hector's bedroom. They cuffed him and made sure he had no weapons on him, but he was no threat, as apparently Dean gave him a concussion, and he couldn't technically move without being really sorry for it. How hard did Dean hit him? Maybe he got it from hitting the ground. Either way, the asshole was nothing to worry about.
Cecelia returned with Dean in tow, and goddamn, he looked rough. Not as in beaten up, as he wasn't more beaten up than he was earlier, but just drained. His eyes were red like he'd been crying, but one of his eyes was puffing and swelling, so maybe it was related. Sam had only had two black eyes in his life so far, but both times, he was reminded anew how much they sucked. It was a deep, dull ache in your face, and sometimes your eyes would start watering for no reason. But Sam still thought it was actual tears. Dean's poker face had slammed in, and that was usually a sign he'd collapsed and let out something genuine, and therefore had to punish himself by pretending not only that it didn't happen, but that it never happened ever.
Sam wondered who this was for. Did it make Dean feel better to pretend he was some unfeeling hard ass? Because Sam knew him. He knew Dean was a metal shell full of marshmallow fluff. He liked to pretend he was the hardest, coolest guy, but Sam knew him all too well. He was also the biggest geek, but, again, refused to acknowledge that. Maybe it all bit too deeply into his persona of Dad's perfect soldier. It wasn't like Sam could ask and get an honest answer out of him. The Winchester family ran on generally accepted lies.
But when Dean passed him, Sam thought he smelled alcohol, and glancing across the room, he saw Cecelia putting away a bottle of booze. Okay - what just happened? She didn't like him drinking, she already made that clear. So what the hell happened? Now he was curious.
He heard the fight from the cellar, kind of. As much as it was a fight. It didn't last long, but they rarely did when the guns came out. He heard Cecelia loud and clear, but he heard Dean's voice but never his words. He'd dropped his voice down to dead serious low, which generally didn't carry. Then gunfire, and then ominous quiet. After the gunfire, the silence was always ominous. Sam knew it was safe to come up when he heard Cecelia barking orders at someone, meaning she survived, and didn't sound stressed, simply pissed off. He didn't hear Dean at all, but that didn't bother him.
Now he was sure he had missed something. What? He could ask, but he already knew he probably wouldn't get a straight answer. He'd just have to figure it out for himself.
Sam was already building a narrative in his head when Melanie and her people arrived. Melanie was a tall redhead who looked like she could snap most of them in half over her knee, although one of the guys with her had a barrel chest and well muscled arms that at least put him in her league. Brother? Couldn't say - there were no real introductions.
Melanie saw the bodies on the floor immediately, and asked Cecelia, "You shot 'em?"
"Yep."
Dean was loitering at the mouth of the hall, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncomfortable. But when Cecelia said that, he looked briefly surprised.
Oh holy shit - Dean killed one of these guys? That had to be it.
Melanie shrugged. "If we were going the legal way, I'd say clear cut case of self-defense. But we're not going the legal way." Melanie stepped up to the couch, and loomed over Louie menacingly. He was already looking down at the floor. It was hard to say if he was more ashamed or more afraid. Probably a little of both. "You broke the code. You know what happens, don't you Louie?"
He didn't speak or look up, he simply nodded. Somehow that was more frightening than seeing the dead bodies in the living room.
Melanie then gestured to the men she brought with her, and said, "Boys, Cecelia, meet me at the car. We need to get you to a hospital ASAP."
"I'm fine," Sam said.
"I'm okay," Dean lied.
She shook her head, and gestured at the door. "Don't care. Out, now."
Melanie seemed exactly like the type of person you crossed at your own peril, so they obeyed, going outside, where there were two other people, a man and a woman, zipping bodies into body bags. That really hammered home the point they were all lucky to be alive.
Melanie had a new kind of truck, and they all got inside, with Dean helping Cecelia up into the cab. She was doing astonishingly well for some one who had been shot four times, but she definitely seemed tired, and Melanie was right: she needed a hospital immediately. Dean probably needed someone to give him a once over too, although he'd never admit that.
He sat beside Dean and shut the truck door. Even though he'd cleaned up, Dean still smelled like blood. It occurred to him he associated the smell of blood with Dean, and wondered what that meant. Well, beyond having an absolutely shit-tastic childhood. "You okay?" Sam asked. He had a feeling he would lie and play the unconvincing "everything's great" card again.
But to his surprise, Dean sighed and sank back into the seat, as if extremely tired. "I'm not sure I've ever been okay."
Wow. Whatever booze Cecelia gave him? Dean totally needed to drink it more.