The door opened.
Little eight year old Sammy stared up at him, clad in his pajamas, his hair tussled adorably from sleep. The moment he saw Dean the childlike excitement in his eyes dulled to a rising horror. "You're not Dad—"
"Sammy—get down!" a frantic high voice shouted from inside the dim hotel room. Dean glanced past Sam and saw the barrel of a shotgun glinting ominously in his direction, held by a twelve year old version of himself.
Unable to think of any alternative, Dean did the only thing he could think of—he wrapped an arm around his little brother and yanked him up off the ground. "Don't!" he commanded.
As he anticipated, his younger self went rigid, eyes wide, furious and terrified all at once, and the barrel of his shotgun dropped so that it was no longer pointing at Sam. Sam started kicking frantically, but Dean held him close to his chest, preventing the child's escape with such minimal effort that it was heartbreaking.
"Let go of my brother!" young Dean demanded, his voice shaking from anger and fear. "Our Dad will be back any second—"
Dean let out a broken laugh at the incredulous statement, stopping the rest of the boy's threat. "No. No he won't." he choked out. He realized that his hands were shaking as he clutched his frantic baby brother against his chest. "He won't be back for days. You're alone."
"You don't know that!" the boy screeched, gripping the shotgun so tightly that his fingers were turning white. His eyes were locked on Sam's face, on his kidnapper's tightening grip around him. "He just went out to get—"
"He went out and left you, that's what he did!" Dean exploded, and the rage and terror he had kept locked away reared its ugly head at last. "On Christmas! What kind of fucked up father goes and leaves their children alone on Christmas??"
"He didn't!" young Dean shouted back. "He didn't leave us! He's coming back! He just went—"
"He just went hunting, that's where he went!" Dean yelled, "Hunting ghosts, hunting demons, hunting vampires—that's where he is! He's with them! They see him more than you do, more than Sam!
Sam let out a whimper. Young Dean's expression of agony intensified. "Sammy, it's gonna be okay, alright? It's gonna be fine, I'm here, okay? Sammy?"
"And you know what?" Dean demanded, ignoring him, "You know what's going to happen to you? How great your life of hunting is gonna be?" His arms unconsciously tightened around his baby brother so firmly that the little boy winced at the pressure.
"Stop!" young Dean yelled angrily. "You're hurting him! I swear to god when my Dad gets back he's gonna—"
Dean shook his head. "He's just going to leave you." He said bitterly.
"No." he said, "He wouldn't—"
"Stop being a gullible piece of shit!" Dean exploded, "He's gonna leave you and go on some frenzied cross country chase to kill the demon that murdered Mom. And guess what? Sam's going to leave you too, but at least he'll come back after his girlfriend burns to death on the ceiling of their apartment—"
"Stop it!" the boy shouted, and the shotgun shook in his small hands. "Shut up! What do you want from us?"
"Not done." Dean said, holding up a finger, his eyes glazed over as he relived the painful moments again and again in his mind. Sam finally stopped struggling and his terrified eyes sought out his brother. "Dean…" he whimpered, and a sob escaped his lips.
"Sammy…it's okay…" his older brother whispered, trying to comfort him. "I'm right here."
Dean ignored their exchange, and continued, "Oh, you'll eventually find Dad—and then he'll go to Hell. For—you. Congratulations, try getting up in the morning with that weight hanging over your head—"
"You're insane." young Dean said, shaking his head helplessly. "You—"
"If I'm insane, you're on the way there, kiddo." Dean said with a wide humorless grin. "Can you guess what happens next? No? Well, Sam's going to die. In your arms. His blood will be all over you…and you…you…you can't…" he paused and continued, "You'll sell your soul to bring him back to life, and then in a year you go to Hell for a few months, which for some sick, twisted reason ends up being forty years. And forty years in Hell—that's like being tortured forever over and over and over and it won't stop. And guess what all those years of fighting achieved?"
"Just put my brother down." Young Dean pleaded. "Please."
"Nothing." Dean said, answering his own question as though the boy hadn't spoken, "It got us nothing. Because we fought for revenge. And after all that, after all those years—Mom's still dead. She doesn't give a damn if we killed the demon that killed her! You know why? She's dead! She's in the ground! Getting revenge doesn't fix anything, it can't bring her back, and Dad certainly can't do it! This wasn't for her, none of it was for her, she wouldn't have wanted this—"
"Put my brother down!" the boy finally snapped, striding closer to Dean, "Someone's gonna hear you and come—"
"No one is staying at this shitty motel on Christmas Eve! Just you." Dean spat. "Listen—" And, as if to emphasize his point, he threw back his head and screamed as loudly as he could. The agonizing, grief-stricken wail seemed to intensify as it echoed across the empty lot. Dean lowered his gaze and, breathing hard, he shook his head. "Did anyone hear that? No. No. You're alone, you're helpless, and...and..." his voice broke and his realized that there were tears streaming down his cheeks, "I've got Sam, alright? I've got him. I've always had him, and I've…still…got him. I have to protect him and this life—god, this life has ripped me to shreds and him to shreds and there's nothing left but I've still got him, alright?! Do you have a problem with that??"
Little Dean stared at him. His hands still firmly wrapped around the shotgun, but his mouth had fallen open slightly. Sam had stilled completely and was staring up at his captor, the color of his eyes an even brighter green against his pale, shivering face as he analyzed Dean's expression.
"Who are you?" young Dean hissed.
"I…" Dean trailed off and licked his lips. "Trust me, you don't want to know." He said bitterly.
"Who—"
A cold little hand reached up and tugged Dean's chin down a little bit. Dean looked down and realized that he was under the deep scrutiny of his little brother. "Your eyes…" Sam murmured softly.
Sam's childish voice cut through the muddled torrent of Dean's maddened thoughts like a knife, and Dean suddenly realized that he was holding the boy painfully tight. He loosened his hold slightly, but not enough for Sam to get away. "What?"
"I…know you…" the boy's voice trailed off as he suddenly caught sight of the amulet hanging from Dean's neck. He froze, eyes wide, and those wide eyes snapped back up to Dean's face.
Recognition.
Oh God…
"Hold it right there!" A deep, forceful voice yelled.
Dean looked up and saw a policeman standing a dozen yards away in the snow, his pistol already drawn and pointed at him. A man was standing half in the doorway of the hotel—the manager?
"Of course." Dean muttered cynically.
"Put the boy down and get your hands up." The officer ordered coldly. "No one has to get hurt."
Dean shook his head. "It's too late for that—"
BLAM
Red hot pain blossomed up Dean's right leg and he fell sideways, caught off guard. As he fell he twisted his body so that Sam was on top, and he hit the snow covered blacktop with a sickening jolt. His eyes swiveled to his younger counterpart, to the smoking shotgun in his hands, and he felt a small smile crawl up his cheek. "Nice." He muttered, keeping a firm grip on his shivering little brother.
The policeman stepped forward quickly, closing the distance between them. Ten feet, seven feet, five feet. "Stay down!" he shouted. "Don't you move!"
Crimson blood was already painting ruby vines across the snow, and he stared down at the pattern for a moment.
A small fist pounded into his chest, and he looked up at Sam's bewildered gaze. "Who are you?" he demanded. "That…that amulet…I was going to give that to…Dad…but he's not here…so I was about to…" he trailed off. "Who are you?"
"Release the boy. Now." The policeman demanded, gun trained on Dean at point blank range.
Dean drew the sword.
SNSNSN
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The chapter is NOT over!! The rest of this chapter will be told from young Dean's point of view. Therefore, when I say "Dean" said something, I mean the 12 year old kid. Older Dean is only referred to as "the man." Just wanted to minimize possible confusion. Oh, and older Dean does NOT get powers in this chapter. Any strange occurrences are all the work of the very ancient flaming sword, which wanted me to make it even more awesome than it already was. That's all.
Dean stared in horror as the man holding Sam pulled a sword out of the scabbard at his side.
His mouth dropped open.
The sword was on fire.
The sword…
…was…
…on fire…
The policeman's jaw clenched in shock and he tightened his finger on the trigger.
"No!" Dean shouted. "What if you hit—"
The bullet shot out of the chamber and froze—hovered—in midair for a moment before dropping noiselessly into the snow.
The policeman's eyes widened and he moved back a step. "How?" he breathed. The motel manager had disappeared back into the front room, and they could all hear him frantically yelling at someone over the phone.
Sam's eyes remained glued on the sword, on the blade, on the flames, and whatever calm he had managed to cling to before fled in an instant. His wild, terrified eyes sought out his brother. "Dean!" he shrieked, and began kicking and struggling once more. "Dean!" he managed to free one arm and reached out toward his brother, his fingers stretching desperately—
Dean had seen enough. He blindly leapt forward toward the man on the ground. Toward the man with the flaming sword.
The man saw him coming but, instead of trying to gut him with the sword, he grunted and tried to twist out of the way. Using his shotgun as a melee weapon, Dean swung down with all his strength and managed to bring the weapon down on the man's already injured leg.
He cried out in agony and kicked out with his other leg, sending Dean sprawling into a snow drift.
"N-no!" Sam cried frantically, writhing as hard as he could in the stranger's grip. "No! Dean! Dean! Please!"
Dean leapt to his feet and hurled himself at the man again—
Only to get the wind abruptly knocked out of him. He gasped and fell to his knees, trying to breathe. Glancing up, he saw the man holding the sword in front of him, and the look in his eyes was completely bewildered. Dean raised a trembling hand in front of himself, and his hand came to rest flatly on an invisible wall in front of him. His eyes widened.
The policeman was frantically shouting into his radio, demanding backup. Finally managing to breathe, Dean met his brother's horrified gaze. "Sammy, it's okay!" he gasped, his raspy voice trying to convince himself just as much as he wanted to convince his brother, "Sammy! Sammy, listen to me. You're gonna be fine." his voice trailed off and he met the gaze of the attacker. "What do you want?!" he hissed.
"Nothing. I...I have to do it." The man answered, his voice cracking. Tears were starting to trickle down his face again, landing with wet plops on Sam's messy light brown hair. "I...have to. I don't have a choice." his green eyes focused on the sword in his hand, and then drifted down to Sam…
Dean started breathing faster, horror coursing through his veins. "No." he gasped, and pounded his fists as hard as he could against the invisible wall, slammed his whole body against the obstruction standing between himself and his little brother. "Sam!"
"Dean!" Sam yelled back, sobbing. "Dean! Dean, don't let him!"
"If you touch him I swear to god—" Dean shrieked, desperately trying to reach his little brother.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" the man gasped, breathing through sobs. "Sammy, my god Sammy I'm so sorry—"
Umm…yeah. I know, it's a big cliffie. And several of you probably want to kill me...I don't blame you. But I will update it soon, I promise, sooner if I get lots of reviews. :) Thanks for reading!