Note: Despite the fact that I am from the Wild Wild West, I own no guns. So I had to look up shotguns to see if my belief that they held only two bullets was real or not. It turns out some do, according to the Remington Website, but they're the "break action" (see how I use my big new words?) kind, which are mostly favored by people shooting in competitions for their antique feel. That didn't seem like the sort of thing Sam and Dean would want, but it looked like what Dean was cleaning in Nightmare. So I decided to go with that. If you think I'm wrong, let me know.
Chapter 28
Dean had listened to the voicemail with astonishment, but not alarm – that didn't come until later. He had left his first message at around 3 a.m. and then gone to sleep believing that once John heard what was going on, he'd abandon this ridiculous shit bag of a plan.
Then came 4:30 a.m., when Sam woke them all up screaming.
"NO!"
From the way Dean shot up, gasping for breath, you'd think he was the one who'd had the dream. He ran the few steps to the other room to find Sam practically wrapped around a wide-eyed Jess.
"Sam? Sweetie?" she choked out around his death grip.
It seemed to snap Sam out of his panic. He let up on the bear hug and pulled away.
"We've got to go." His eyes swung around to lock on Dean. Even in the little bit of streetlight filtering into the room, Dean could see the whites glimmering. "He's coming."
Dean had guessed as much, but he sure hated to hear it. He could feel knots tightening between his shoulder blades. But he gave a quick nod and hurried back to start gathering up his things. He assumed the bedspring creaks he heard behind him meant Sam and Jess were doing the same. He was glad Jess wasn't protesting this time.
While he packed, he left another message.
"Dad, you've got to start answering your phone." He sighed. "We're leaving Albuquerque. Sam … Sam had another dream. We're all OK. But – I don't know where to go next, Dad, where to go where it can't find us. Call me Dad. As soon as you get this."
He was stuffing his toothbrush into his bag as he thumbed the phone off. He was zipping the bag up when he heard the knock on Sam and Jessica's door.
Everything froze. It had been quiet before, just hurried footsteps and the rustle of bags being packed. But this … this was a totally different kind of quiet. A pin drop would have seemed a ruckus in comparison.
"Room service," a voice announced from outside. It dripped sarcasm. Dean looked at the darkened window and wondered what it would take to break it. It wasn't the kind that opened, and even if it did they were on the second floor. But if he was right about what he thought was outside, they might want to take their chances.
Dean grabbed his still-loaded shotgun and hurried to the other room. Sam was pushing down on Jess's shoulders, trying to communicate without words that he wanted her to squeeze down beneath the bed. Her hand was over her mouth, probably literally holding back the sobs Dean could see shaking her shoulders. But she indicated that she understood and began trying to squirm under.
The knock came again, a little louder this time.
"Boys," whoever was outside admonished. The voice was young, but the tone was old. "I'm waiting."
Jess was pulling her foot in after her when the door burst open.
A pimply boy who couldn't have been long out of high school stood on the other side. When he had checked the trio in, he'd looked bored to tears and minutes from falling asleep. Now his eyes were alert. And yellow.
Sam went scrambling after his gun, and the boy didn't move to stop him. Instead, he threw an easy smile in Dean's direction, dropped his gaze to the floor in front of him and cocked a curious eyebrow at the white line along the entryway. Dean found his apparent lack of concern discomfiting.
The boy looked back up with a big grin, then took a step back into the hallway. Without taking his eyes off Dean's, he thrust both hands out to his sides. The movement was accompanied by loud bangs coming from both ends of the hallway, and followed by a sudden breeze.
'The doors,' he thought, bewildered. 'He opened the doors.' And then it clicked. Open doors at either end of the long hall would create a pretty strong wind tunnel in the blustery mountain city – strong enough to easily erode the thick lines of salt he'd carefully drawn earlier.
Dean grabbed Sam's elbow and pulled him back toward the only other way out. He started banging the butt of the shotgun against the thick glass, hoping to lead by example. He almost wished the guns were loaded with something other than rock salt – maybe they could have shot it out. As it was, they weren't doing much more than scratching it.
And then it was too late to do any more.
Dean knew the moment the demon stepped into the room. Unlike the temperature dips associated with hauntings, the demon seemed to be radiating the heat of hell. Some part of his soul, or whatever it was demons had, must still have been smoldering, because there was a faint scent of burning matches in the air. Sulfur is odorless until it burns.
Dean turned and raised his gun. But he couldn't fire. Not yet. Between them, he and Sam had only four shots before they had to reload. They needed to save them for the actual attack – which Dean was sure was soon to come.
So he fired off his mouth instead.
"Can we help you?" he drawled, with as much boredom as he could muster.
The demon smiled again. "I sure hope so," he said. And Dean wondered how there could be so much menace in such a squeaky voice.
"What do you want?" Sam asked, probably trying to sound brave – but failing. Dean decided they must not offer a trash talking demons course at Stanford.
The demon eyed Sam speculatively. "Good to see you again, Sammy. You've sure grown up since the last time we met. I hear congratulations are in order."
With a wave of his hand, the room's bed slid to the side, revealing Jessica huddled underneath. A flick of his wrist and she was up and flying toward the wall. She hit with a shriek, and her eyes fell on Sam, pleading. Sam gave a choked off little moan in response. The knots in Dean's shoulders started lassoing his stomach.
"Please," Sam gasped. And the demon's smile grew wider.
"Please what?"
"Please … just tell us what you want."
"Pretty please with sugar on top?" Jess's body began to inch up the wall slowly. The smile really and truly could only be described as evil now.
"Just … please," Sam begged. The 'I'll do anything' was implied, if not exactly said.
The demon shrugged, suddenly all indifference. "All right. All you had to do was ask." Jess slid back to the floor. It might have been a good thing, but who really believed that?
"I need to speak with your father," the demon said.
Dean had had no idea what to expect. He'd never been able to imagine why the demon had chosen his family to mess with, and he certainly couldn't guess what had brought it back. So, with no expectations, it should have been impossible to surprise him. But it apparently wasn't.
'Dad?' he thought. 'What the …' But out loud: "What, do we look like his secretaries? I'm afraid Dad's unavailable right now. He isn't taking calls."
"I know," the demon said smugly. "But I think I have an idea for getting his attention."
Suddenly the guns went flying out of Sam and Dean's hands and they found themselves pinned against the window. It was like there was an steel band across Dean's chest, holding him in place and restricting his breathing.
Still, he was able to choke another taunt out.
"Acting out like this … will only get you … negative attention."
Then he groaned as the steel band tightened.
"I had planned," the demon began in a nonchalant, professorial tone, "to use Jessie here to get my message to John." He strolled over to Jess and leaned in close with his shark's smile. Dean could hear Sam grunting as he struggled against the demon's hold. "She's been getting in the way anyway."
"In the way of what?" Sam somehow managed to grind out.
"Oh no need to worry about that right now, Sammy. That'll come later. Right now I just need to talk to your dad. But let's face it, the whole burning blonde thing is really only effective when it's a surprise. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to branch out a little. I usually don't bother with the whole hostage thing – it's just a little over the top, don't you think? But I think I've come up with a new spin on it."
Dean was willing to bet he wasn't going to like this new spin. "Yeah … well … why mess with … a classic?" he gasped.
The demon rolled his eyes, but paired it with an indulgent smile, as though Dean were a mischievous toddler testing his boundaries.
"Don't worry, Dean. Just tell John this: Little boys shouldn't play with guns. I'm sure he'll make the right decision."
Then, before Dean had time to question that, the boy threw back his head and wrenched his jaw wide open. A black cloud spurted out and roiled up toward the ceiling. But once it got there, it changed directions – and headed straight for Sam.
"SAM!" Dean called. But there was nothing Sam could do. The mist surrounded him and seemed to suck in through his eyes and nose and mouth. Just seconds later, Sam relaxed as whatever was holding him against the window let go. He straightened and turned to Dean wearing the demon's smile.
"I'll be in touch, Dean," he said in a voice that was and somehow wasn't Sam's. "Don't forget to give Dad the message."
And with that, he backed up a few steps, got a running start and slammed into the window. It shattered, and Sam went flying through.
Dean only just caught himself before falling backward. But at least he was able to move again.
"SAM!" he screamed as his brother ran down the street, leaving behind a trail of blood.
