The place where Bela says the demons are taking Sam is certainly an out-of-the-way, unexciting one, Dean thinks as he follows a narrow dirt road farther and farther into the Wyoming countryside. There's been nothing on either side of him for miles except dry grass and weeds. Then again, the middle of nowhere is probably the best place possible for a hell gate to be located.
His headlights suddenly strike a red glow from the reflectors of a car up ahead. Dean slows, and pulls up behind it cautiously. It doesn't look as though anyone is inside, but its high beams are still on, shining on a mess of twisted metal and wood that clearly used to be a railroad track. Dean shuts off the Impala's engine and sits for a moment, waiting, checking that all his weapons are in place—the knives in each boot, sleeve, and pocket, the spare revolver in its holster on his right side, the sawed-off loaded with salt rounds on his left.
Last of all, he brushes his fingers over the handle of the Colt in his waistband.
He opens the door of the Impala slowly, so that it doesn't creak, and shuts it quietly. Then he creeps around to the other car and peers in the windows. It's definitely empty. Dean sighs. While he's glad there aren't any demons waiting in there, he couldn't quite suppress the hope that finding Sam would be that easy, that rescuing him would be as simple as breaking into a car.
Dean turns to face the destroyed railroad track. It must have been an extremely powerful force to cause this much damage; each rail has actually been snapped, the broken ends ripped up from the ground. The devil's trap has been broken. If the hell gate is opened, the demon army will be able to escape.
As if Dean needed more incentive to get to Sam quickly. He's certain Sam will refuse to open the gate, but there's no telling what the demons might do to him. Dean surveys the twisted remains of the track, chewing his lip, thinking of the warehouse in Chicago, and the pole Sam tore from its moorings. What might the demons have already done to him, to get him to break the devil's trap like this?
Dean steps over the track, squinting into the darkness. The moon provides only enough light that he doesn't stumble over the old gravestones littering the ground as he makes his way towards what he judges to be the center of the devil's trap. He steps quietly, listening intently, but there's no sign of Sam, Azazel, or any demon.
The crypt seems to emerge from the darkness all at once, as if a curtain has been drawn back to reveal it. It's huge, and ancient-looking, from what Dean can tell in the dark—but he's more concerned with the two figures standing at its door. One of them is a man he doesn't recognize, but whose eyes glow yellow in the darkness. The other is Sam.
For a moment, while Dean hesitates, it seems to him that the scene is frozen, as if in tableau—he takes in the rigid set of Sam's shoulders, the way one of his hands is reaching out towards the door. He has time to wonder what Sam is doing, why he's standing there with the demon who has to be Azazel, opening a gate into hell. Then Sam's hand reaches out a few more inches, grasps the handle of the door, and cracks it open.
Instantly, black smoke rushes through the gap out into the night. A great wind kicks up, accompanied by a terrible howling, whether of air or of actual voices Dean can't tell. He watches, transfixed, as one bright streak emerges amongst all the black smoke. Its passing illuminates the doorway for a brief moment, and Dean sees Sam's muscles tense, as though preparing to pull the door wider.
Dean doesn't hesitate this time. He's running, yelling, realizing that the gate is unleashing terrible evil, but caring only that his brother is there, surrounded by demons.
"SAM!"
But Sam doesn't seem to hear him, doesn't look around, doesn't even twitch, and before Dean can call again, an invisible force grabs him and flings him backwards.
Dean crashes headlong into a gravestone and slides to the ground, dazed. The next thing he knows, someone is looming over him in the darkness. Rough hands flip him over, rifling among his clothes. He makes a noise of protest and reaches to slap them away, but he's too late—his fingers brush the stranger's just as the Colt is ripped away from him. He flips back over and faces his attacker. It's the yellow-eyed demon who was standing at the crypt door with Sam.
This, then, is Azazel. And he's just disarmed Dean of the only weapon he has against him.
And he's taken his brother away. That alone makes Dean want to kill him with his bare hands, magic bullets be damned.
"Dean, Dean, Dean," drawls Azazel, spinning the Colt lazily in his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Likewise," says Dean, and Azazel laughs. The sound is caught up in the wind, carried on the swirling black smoke, and it sounds briefly to Dean as though dozens of demonic voices are laughing, not just one.
"I can see where Sam gets the attitude," Azazel chuckles. Then he glances back over his shoulder towards the crypt. "Look at him. Doing well, isn't he? You must be so proud."
"What the hell did you do him?" Dean demands. He can just make out Sam, still standing at the crypt in that oddly rigid posture, muscles straining and pulling at the door.
"I opened his mind. Made him more receptive," says Azazel, making a sweeping gesture with the Colt.
"You've got some black-eyed bastard riding him, don't you, you son of a bitch?" Dean asks through clenched teeth. His head is throbbing, anger and pain pulsing inside him like a second heartbeat.
Azazel bows, making mocking little flourishes with the hand holding the Colt. "It wasn't the original plan, but I think I actually like this better. All the muscle and mojo with none of the angst and whining."
Dean sits up slowly, his fingers straying to the salt-loaded sawed-off in its holster at his side. Salt rounds won't kill Azazel, but they'll certainly hurt—and right now, that seems like an attractive option.
"You know, the only reason I ever let you live was because I thought I might be able to use you to get to Sam. And would you look at that?" Azazel's smile flashes white, a Cheshire-cat grin floating in the darkness. Behind him, Sam succeeds in yanking the crypt door open a few more inches. "It worked."
Dean is on his feet now, swaying a bit as the wind buffets him, but he focuses stubbornly on Azazel, using his rage to steady himself. That monster, there, standing before him, is his goal. This monster who has taken both his mother and his father from him.
Dean will be damned if he'll let Sam be taken, too.
He draws the sawed-off and fires almost in the same motion. The crack of the gun is almost lost in the noise of the wind and the howling, but a red hole appears in Azazel's forehead. He doesn't even flinch; instead, he makes a flicking motion with his hand, and Dean is flung backwards again. Pain explodes in his skull, as though the bullet is lodged in his own head, rather than Azazel's.
"I have to say, much as I appreciate your help in all this," says Azazel, while Dean uses a gravestone to pull himself upright again, "you're a liability, Dean. Always have been." Dean hears the click of the Colt's hammer being pulled back. When he looks up, it's to stare directly down the barrel. "Nothing personal," says Azazel, his smile vicious now. "Just covering my assets."
For a split second, Dean wonders whether he could move fast enough to grab the gun before Azazel fires. Next moment, all his calculations are rendered null as a bright figure grabs the demon from behind. Azazel gives a roar of frustration, trying to throw off the clinging figure, which has his arms pinned to his sides. The Colt goes spinning out of his hand. Without pausing to think, Dean dives after it, scrabbling amongst the dirt and weeds until his fingers find that familiar wooden handle, and then turning to aim directly at the struggling pair.
It's only then that he sees who the bright figure is.
The last time he saw his father, he was a bloody mess on the ground, unrecognizable, a hellhound's chew toy. But here he is again, meeting Dean's eyes in the same frank way he always used to, one eyebrow raised in question.
Dean sets his jaw and nods, his finger tight on the Colt's trigger.
John nods back and steps away.
The crack of the gunshot is deafening, even with the howling of the wind. The bullet hits Azazel in the heart, and he falls to his knees, screaming as the crackling white light engulfs him, flickering over his skin. Then he slips sideways and falls heavily to the ground, where he lies still and silent except for a few last flashes of light.
Dean turns immediately, searching for the bright figure of his father, struck with the sudden fear that he's already vanished. But he's there, smiling more widely than Dean ever saw him smile in life.
"I did it," says Dean. His vision is blurring, and he doesn't think it's entirely due to his head wound. "I did it, Dad. I killed him."
"Good," says John, his voice a ghostly echo on the wind. "Now go take care of your brother."
Dean tears his eyes from his father to look towards the crypt, panic rising up within him. The crypt door is still cracked, and black smoke is still rushing out, but Sam seems frozen in the act of pulling it open. Dean silently curses Azazel again, for costing him time, for forcing Sam to spend a single extra second as a demon's meat suit.
"Now, Dean," says John's voice behind him. "Go!"
Dean obeys, taking off towards the crypt without a backward glance. He calls out to Sam as he approaches, but just as before, Sam doesn't appear to hear him; he continues to stand there, his hand locked on the door of the crypt, inching it further and further open. Dean runs directly up to him, and places a hand on one of his shoulders.
"Sam?"
Sam's head whips around so fast Dean jumps. In the moonlight, his eyes are bottomless pits of solid black, half-hidden behind tangles of hair.
"Sam can't play right now." The words emerge from Sam's mouth, but they are not spoken in anything resembling his voice. Dean shivers, but keeps his eyes firmly fixed on those demon-black pits.
"Sammy," he says. "Come on. Send this black-eyed bitch packing, will ya? I want to talk to you." Sam begins shaking violently, an inhuman growl tearing from his throat, his face twisted almost beyond recognition. Dean tightens his grip on Sam's shoulder, steadying him. "I want to tell you I'm—I'm sorry," he says, his voice breaking. He refuses to consider the possibility that Sam can't hear him, and plunges on, "I shouldn't have freaked out at you like that, I'm sorry, it was stupid, I was just—I thought—"
Sam's face suddenly relaxes, though the rest of his body remains taut as a steel cable. The black dissipates from his eyes, leaving them pure white; it takes Dean a moment to realize they're rolled up into his head, as if looking inward, to where he must surely be waging a terrible war against the demon possessing him.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is so hoarse as to be almost inaudible, but it's definitely his. Dean thinks he has rarely heard a sweeter sound.
"Yeah, Sammy," he answers, bringing his other hand up to smooth Sam's hair away from his face.
"You're here?" asks Sam. The disbelieving tone in which he says it hurts far worse than being thrown into the gravestone.
"I'm here," Dean manages to say.
"The Colt," says Sam urgently. "You got the Colt?"
"Yeah, I've got it, Sammy," says Dean, unable to help grinning a bit. "Found your hiding place. And I killed Azazel. He's dead."
"Good," rasps Sam. "Now you gotta kill me."
Dean's hand stills where it was running through Sam's hair. "What?"
"Meg," says Sam, squeezing his eyes shut. His face twists again, though this time it looks like an expression of pain rather than demonic rage. "She's got me, I can't fight her off. Shoot me, kill her. Then you can close the hell gate."
"I'm not gonna do that, Sam," says Dean flatly. He digs his fingers even more deeply into Sam's shoulder, as though he could separate his brother from the demon if he just pulled hard enough.
"You have to," Sam whispers, tears trickling from behind his closed eyelids.
"No, I don't have to," says Dean. He leans forward until his forehead is touching Sam's, scrunching up his own face and speaking through gritted teeth. "Cause you're going to fight her off."
"I can't," says Sam.
"Yes, you can," Dean insists. "Come on, man. We're all right here with you. Me and Dad—and Mom, too."
And, impulsively, Dean seizes the amulet hanging around his neck, pulls it off, and slips the cord over Sam's head.
*S*P*N*
Sam can't feel much besides the burning black smoke swirling around him, but he feels the amulet slip over his head. He feels it settle against his chest, right over his heart, warm with his brother's body heat.
Dean's here, he tells Meg. The words seem to blow out of him at gale force, forcing the smoke back, creating a space for Sam to breathe again, to stretch, to revel in his brother's presence.
You think that means anything? she hisses back, but he can feel her fear. You think he's here for you? He's here to stop the gate opening. You're causing problems again, Sammy-boy.
Dean's here, Sam repeats, even stronger now. My big brother's here. He's gonna rip your lungs out.
These last words come out like a hurricane, like a tornado; they spin through Sam's body like a cleansing breeze, and the smoke is torn to shreds by their passing, forced up and out like sparks through a chimney.
The next thing he knows, Sam is on the ground, his cheek pressing into prickly dry grass. Every muscle is his body is aching as though he'd been doing training drills for hours, and his throat feels sore, raw, and blistered. There's a howling in his ears, and his vision is still obscured by black smoke, swirling around him angrily, as though looking for a way back in.
"Sam? Sam?"
There are hands grabbing his, strong arms pulling him upright, and Sam wants nothing more than to collapse into those arms and never move again.
But there's something he has to do first.
"I'm okay, Dean," he says, turning to face the crypt door. "Just need to fix this."
With that, he begins pushing against the door Meg forced him to pull. His abused muscles scream in protest, but he throws all of his weight against it, and slowly, slowly, the door scrapes over the ground, back towards the crypt.
There's a moment of complete silence. The wind stops. The howling ceases. The black smoke of the escaping demons seems to hang immobile in the air.
Sam heaves against the door again, and it scrapes backward another millimeter.
Instantly, the howling starts up again, even louder than before—but this time, it's as though a giant vacuum has been placed at the mouth of the crypt, for the wind is whistling in the other direction, and the smoke is being sucked back in, until finally, with a last screech of rusty hinges, the door slams closed, and the air is calm and clear again.
Sam's knees give way, and he slides helplessly down the rough stone of the door. He doesn't make it to the ground, though, for that pair of strong arms is there, encircling him, supporting him. Sam drapes his own arms weakly around Dean, resting against him.
"You okay, little brother?" Dean asks after a moment, pushing Sam back to examine him.
"I'm fine," says Sam, trying to burrow back into the circle of Dean's arms. To his surprise, Dean lets him.
"Hey Sam," says Dean after another moment. "In case you didn't hear me before. I wanted to tell you that I'm….I'm, uh—"
This time, Sam pulls back of his own accord, peering into the little of Dean's face he can see in the moonlight. "I heard you," he says softly. "Me, too."
Dean thumps his shoulder. Sam can see him grinning, and doesn't mind at all that the thump sends pain radiating through his sore muscles. Before he can say anything else, though, a faint light catches his eye.
Dean sees him staring, and smiles again when he sees what Sam is looking at.
"I told you we were all here with you, didn't I?" he murmurs.
Sam can't tear his eyes away from his father's face, glowing palely against the night.
"Thanks, Dad," he whispers. "For...for being here."
The ghost says nothing, but nods to him, then to Dean. Then the glow fades until he disappears from sight completely.
Sam and Dean stand there, shoulder-to-shoulder, for a long time, until Sam's knees get weak again.
"Come on," says Dean. "Let's get back to the Impala."
Sam merely nods, and follows. A faint light is starting to tinge the eastern sky, so they're at least able to see their way around the gravestones as they trek back through the cemetery, back across the broken railroad, back to where the Impala is waiting. Sam opens the passenger door and slides into the seat, while Dean slides into the driver's side. Sam settles back, thinking that no armchair, couch, or bed could ever be quite this comfortable.
"So," says Dean, fitting the keys into the ignition, but not starting the car yet. He sounds oddly hesitant, and doesn't meet Sam's eyes when he turns to look at him. "The demon who killed Mom is dead."
"Good riddance," says Sam, watching him.
"So it's over," says Dean. "It's done with."
Sam frowns, confused. "So, what?" he asks. "Are you done hunting?"
"No," says Dean. "I'm not." He finally looks up at Sam, eyebrows raised, as if expecting a response, but Sam is still at a loss as to what the question is. Dean sighs. "I mean, when I picked you up in Palo Alto it was only supposed to be until we found Mom's killer."
It's Sam's turn to look away. "You want to take me back there?" he asks in a flat voice.
"No," says Dean quickly. "But—I thought you were planning on going back to finish your law degree, and I figured—"
Sam can't help it; he laughs aloud.
"What?" Dean demands, looking annoyed now, but this only makes Sam laugh harder. "Shut up, bitch," he snaps. "What the hell is so funny?"
"Sorry," gasps Sam. "It's just, I'm pretty sure I don't really want to go into law anymore."
"Oh yeah?" says Dean, looking wary, but sounding hopeful. "What do you want to do, then?"
Sam grins. "I thought I'd go into the family business."
"What do you mean?" asks Dean.
"You know," says Sam. "Saving people, hunting things."
Dean starts to grin, too. "All right, then," he says. He turns the key in the ignition, and the Impala's engine roars to life. "We got work to do."
A/N: The end! I can't believe it!
Just want to say thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, favorited or followed this story. I hope you've all had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
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