A/N: Well, here it is. Wanted to post this thing earlier than Friday morning. I had even written what I thought was the final draft, and my muse came staggering in when I was half-asleep a day or so ago and told me some other stuff she wanted me to add...grumbles... Damn muse.
I have nothing personal against Wal-Mart. Could've just as easily been Target or Sam's Warehouse, or the Mall of America. Just so we're clear on that.
The spellwork Azazel uses is the same spell Meg used to break Bobby's Devil's Trap in "Born Under A Bad Sign". I got the text from the Supernatural Book of Monsters, Spirits, Demons and Ghouls, page 169.
Then: Dean's shot with the Colt, and has to deal with it.
Now: Azazel's demons stage a coup while ol' Yeller is otherwise occupied. Dean's situation goes from bad to worse. Much worse…
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, so please don't sue. I'm broke.
Spoilers: Devil's Trap
Dog Eat Dog
Chapter 37 – Past Glories
One
Some of the scars were barely visible, just below the surface of his skin. He'd always been lucky enough to heal pretty quickly, and what scars he did have made up the life story that he told to the magic inside Sam Colt's bullet.
The searing pain of two ribs snapping like twigs as he was hurled into a wall by that ghúl down in Tallahassee, Florida.
The tightness in his back and shoulders whenever Sam and Dad had one of their damn arguments.
Bar fight up in Utah; broke two of the fingers on his right hand against that guy's jaw. Dude turned out to be a fugly wearing a stolen human skin, and when the fight spilled out to the alley Dean had to pull his Colt and shoot the dude in the head with those silver loads. Barely stopped the bastard.
Four deep clawmarks across his forehead, courtesy of those daeva in Chicago, Illinois. It was a wonder the blood loss hadn't dropped him in his tracks, but adrenaline kicked in, had to get him and Sammy to safety, they were no good to Dad if they both ended up stone cold dead.
Stab wounds in Washington state, broken bones in Indiana.
Got a fever from a fugly bite up in New Jersey. Found out later on emergency room personnel had a betting pool going on: even odds that he wouldn't make it. Wouldv'e taken that bet if he'd been in his right mind.
Dean sang a song of pain, spilled blood, muscle fatigue, fear and loss, and the silver in the bullets and the killing magic inside grew quiet. He wasn't afraid of dying, never had been, but he was afraid of dying before he'd gotten things done. Dean hung on with the same unreasonable stubbornness he'd always had about everything else. He'd get Sam and John and Bobby to safety, get out of this mess somehow alive, and then he'd turn everything over to Coyote. He'd given the Old Man his word. Didn't have much else in this world, besides Sam, Dad, the Impala, and what was in his duffel. Man's word was his bond, more important than money in the bank.
He'd go willingly behind that solid dark wall, and it would be a sweet relief when he did.
Two
The demons crouched underneath the earth, and they waited.
They'd been patient up until now.
Old Yellow Eye had promised them he could open the hell-mouth from the other side. He promised them the blood of infants, the tender flesh of humans, warm bodies aplenty to occupy, to ruin and discard as they saw fit. They were going to recapture past glories, open up an era of unparalleled carnage and horror such as the world had never seen.
And so far, they'd gotten nothing.
They'd waited. They'd been patient.
It was rumored that Azazel was going to use a Trickster to open the portal; it was also rumored that the Trickster was Coyote and that God's Dog had somehow gotten himself ensouled in the body of one Dean Winchester, of all people. A legendary Trickster inside a lethal young hunter's body? That was madness. In all millennia every single time a demon made a bargain with or tried to subvert a Trickster the deal always went badly. No one had the nerve to tell the yellow-eyed fool that his plan might not work.
Azazel was stuck on the idea of having a pet Trickster all his own, to heel obediently at his side, and the fact that said Trickster was also John Winchester's eldest son made the idea all the more attractive. The multitude went along with the plan, because it might have worked. It might have.
But just in case it didn't, there were those among them who had power of their own. There was a small group of twenty wraith-witches who could open the hellmouth just as well as Coyote could by himself. As a group they were strong enough to cut the lines of force that barred them from the surface of the earth. If they broke through on their own Azazel would no longer be in charge. It was a grab for power, and it was worth the risk. Old Yellow Eyes was an arrogant tyrant, and the others were just waiting for him to trip and fall.
A ripple of movement went through the multitude of demons underneath Wal-Mart. The most visible section of the portal was directly underneath the store, but a larger portion of the hellmouth stretched well underneath the parking lot. The demons parted ranks like the Red Sea once did, let the hags take their positions for the breaching ritutal.
The time was now, and time was something that Azazel had run out of.
Three
He was drunk. Yeah, that was it. Drunk. Had to be the reason he was seeing all these weird freaky things. Gus Amato vaguely remembered staggering into his apartment, and gratefully collapsing into that big easy chair in front of the tv. He had enough energy to grope around for the damn remote, and when he turned the tv on the last thing he remembered was David Letterman doing that stupid top 10 reasons for whatever.
Things got a little hazy after that. Something dark pushed into the air all around him and he couldn't breathe. He tried to yell out, but he couldn't make a sound.
After that things got downright freaky. Black metal chains that sizzled, stray dogs that weren't really dogs at all, and he and his neighbors were out in the streets running around, chasing the damned dogs, chaining them up, then the ground opened and they dropped the dogs in.
Then everybody jumped in after the dogs. It was hot and dark down there.
That was the part he really didn't like.
He was still back in his apartment, slumped over in that easy chair, drunk as a skunk, dreaming. Yeah. That was it. No other explanation for it. Gus yawned to himself, even though he couldn't really feel his own body. He was feeling no pain, and that was the whole point of getting shit-faced drunk in the first place. After a hard day at work, guy needed to unwind, didn't he?
He didn't even scream as the pale ugly hag dug her too-long fingers into his chest. It was all a dream, right?
It had taken some persuasion and the promise of more human bodies to persuade the Ursi Taku to lend some of the people they'd taken from Vashon to the cause. The breaching ritual needed blood, human blood. It was a quick wet way to open the portal. Twenty human hearts were raising dripping wet and still beating into the darkness underneath the Wal-Mart parking lot. The wraith-witches were all linked together now, and they began to chant as one…
Four
Azazel lashed out, with his mind and sent Dean slamming into that far brick wall. Judging from the boneless way the young hunter's body hit the ground and the large dent in the wall Azazel figured the darkling wouldn't be a factor from now on, and with any luck Dean's back was broken during the impact.
The second heart died as Azazel pulled the knife out of Dean's side.
The Demon nearly laughed when the two cat things charged him. They tried to claw their way through the barrier, and Azazel was in a mood to do some more damage. He grabbed each one of them with his mind and flung them off the roof, hissing and squalling like two angry kittens. It was so easy.
He'd waited long enough. He'd waited for Dean's body to drop dead, but when it appeared that the Colt's magic was somehow being blocked, Azazel had gotten tired of that darkling manhandling Sam like that. It was one thing to hide from Dean and Coyote, deep inside Sam's flesh, but the dark one didn't have any problem damaging Sam, and that, ironically enough, was something Azazel was not going to allow for too long.
Dean Winchester had been shot nearly point-blank with the last bullet Samuel Colt had forged, and somehow the damn boy managed to survive so far.
Azazel was impressed. Of the thirteen bullets eleven of those hits had been lethal. Azazel still remembered how it felt inside John Winchester's body when one of those damned bullets hit. The pain was excruciating; the energy Colt used seared John's nerve endings. The Demon had been dazed, confused, slow to act on its own. It had never felt that kind of pain before in its life. John Winchester actually held Azazel inside his own body, and that was unheard of, something no mortal had ever done before, and Winchester ordered Sam to shoot him in the head with the last remaining bullet.
Sam refused, and in that moment's hesitation Azazel forced John's mouth open and fled.
It didn't like to think about how close it had come to oblivion. Didn't matter, anyway.
Sam was his now.
The others wouldn't wait any longer. He was sure of it. He'd heard the grumblings, heard the rumors and he wasn't surprised by any of it. He'd deal with them as soon as he released himself from that damn circle.
Sam's body stood in the middle of the circle, barely blinking in the rain. Head down, Azazel stared at the letters and symbols underneath his feet. Some of it was Sumerian, and the Demon briefly wondered how and where the hell Coyote had picked that up in his many travels. It looked a lot like a Devil's Trap. There was one countermeasure Azazel knew he could use.
"Spiritus immundi, ungularum suarum emittee paulatim iram. Domina, persona carnis ossissque, toti mundi, trepidationais pennarum, tu appellatus vir, vertias et mensura. In murum somni pii, spiritus immundi, ungularium suarum emittitte paulatim iram."
Nothing happened.
Sam's mouth twisted up into a vicious snarl as Azazel cursed to himself; he scowled at Dean, lying still and crumpled up against the wall. Dean might as well been a part of the pile of broken bricks around him, because he didn't move or blink as the rain came pelting down on him.
The boys had been very tricky so far tonight, and the Demon would take great pleasure in severing Winchester's head from his body. It would pull his remaining heart bloody and still beating from his chest and laugh about it.
First things first.
The Demon hummed to itself as it used Sam's body. It was some little barroom ditty it had picked up somewhere, back in the middle part of the twentieth century, way before Sam had even been born. It had roamed through Europe then, Germany especially. The Night of the Long Knives, beer halls, swastikas, canisters of Zyklon-B and fake showerheads. It especially liked those sleek black SS uniforms and those mobile gas chambers that rolled through the countryside. Those were the days.
Thunder rumbled overhead. It was the calm before the storm. Azazel could feel it, could feel the pressure building up in the air above him. He was no stranger to wild, freak weather. Wasn't any accident that this storm was centered over the Wal-Mart store.
Azazel was halfway through the circle, with his back to Dean, when he heard something that froze him in place for a moment. A soft intake of breath. A low growl from behind, more felt than heard.
Azazel let out the breath in Sam's lungs out in one long exasperated sigh.
He felt the rumble in the earth below through the soles of Sam's boots. He was out of time, and he knew it.
"Why aren't you dead yet?" Azazel snarled as he turned Sam around, and Coyote laughed.
Five
He brought me back.
Dean's hands on his skin, fingers digging into the soft underside of his throat. That slight electric tingle that was annoying at first, then quickly grew to be downright painful. The murderous look in those wild yellow eyes, completely at odds with the sad deep voice that echoed inside John's head.
Dad, please, I – I was mad at you for what you did.
My boy brought me back…
I hated you for what you did. How the hell d'you think I'd feel, you makin' a deal with the damned thing? Why can't I use what I've got to help my own family?
Sam yelling for Dean to stop, his voice faint, distant, and in that instant John got it. He understood. It was a trick. And Dean couldn't let Sam in on it because Sam was with the Demon now, and if Sam knew the truth, then so would that yellow eyed bastard.
John looked down at his hands, felt his heart pump warm blood through his veins, heard the intake of air as his lungs worked. In and out. In and out. Two hours ago, he was a ghost, a shade. Two hours ago he was roasting in hell fire. Now he was alive and well, strike that, breathing at least. He wasn't well, didn't know if he'd ever be well again.
He'd died because of Dean. Now he was alive again, and that was all because of Dean too.
Bobby was cool about it. He didn't sit there and stare, but oh yeah, he was keeping an eye on him. John knew that.
We're not leavin' my boys behind. Dean said they were coming, and I trust him. Even with everything that's happened, I trust him. He may not believe that, but I do. Try to ditch my boys and I will shoot you and that damn dog of yours too.
Six
The GTO's 350 V8 engine roared to life, powerful, solid and steady. The car's frame vibrated slightly with the sound of the engine, but there weren't any rattles, or squeaks; there was nothing loose or off-balance about the car at all. The car was like a quarter-horse: tough, dependable, massively solid.
Bobby pulled the car away from the cluster of cars and buses behind them. He parked the car at a slight angle, facing the store, out in the center of the parking lot. It was a large, clear space, big enough for several tractor trailer rigs to fit in comfortably, big enough for Bobby to turn the GTO around on a dime when the time came to shag ass like Satan himself was after them.
The way things had been going, that was a distinct possibility.
Bobby just hoped that the layout of the parking lot hadn't changed from the first time he and the boys came through. He didn't like to assume anything, and never mind that old saying about assuming will make an ass out of you and me. Hunters who assumed anything usually found themselves horribly maimed or killed. Or worse. Pure dumb luck could only go so far.
Bobby trusted hunter's instinct a little more. Sometimes either one could make the difference between getting out alive or having your ass handed to you. Right now Bobby's hunter's instinct was telling him that if he tried to drive off, for whatever reason, John Winchester would go medieval on him, quick, fast and in a hurry.
Condie expected to ride shotgun; she was as big a fool for the passenger seat of a car or truck as Rumsfeld had ever been. Fool dog would stick her head out of the window of Bobby's truck, hang her huge paws over the top of the door frame, close her eyes and grin like an idiotwith her tongue hanging out while the wind ruffled through her fur and those ridiculously large pointed ears of hers.
When Bobby opened the door and pulled the passenger seat down, motioned for her to get in, Condie stared at him in disbelief. The back seat? Boss, have you lost your friggin' mind? She growled a little at John but immediately hopped in the back seat without further comment and not much hesitation. It would be a close fit when Sam folded his long lanky frame back there.
Bobby still doubted that Dean would make three in the back.
John sat with the shotgun cradled in his lap, all coiled energy ready to uncoil at a moment's notice, deceptively calm, with that curiously blank look on his face. It was the same expression Dean frequently wore; didn't surprise Bobby one bit that the boy had copied the look from his daddy. There was a thunderstorm of emotions going on behind those deceptively mild eyes. Bobby could only imagine what was going on inside John's fool head.
Man finds out that his eldest son is one of the very same creatures that he's devoted his life to hunting down and destroying, and he still trades his life for the boy. Goes to hell for him, and goes willingly. John was rigid on the subject of fuglies. Bobby knew that. The sight of Mary Winchester burning and bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery had curdled something inside John's soul. There was evil in the world, and before he got to that yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch John was going to make them all pay.
Thunder rolled and lightning split the sky above them. The wind picked up considerably, and sheets of rain blew almost horizontal. Black and maroon clouds roiled in the sky overhead, which was why Bobby just happened to glance in the rear view mirror at the store behind them.
It was a simple mistake. Easy to mistake the rumble for the rumble of the goat's engine. Bobby felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up painfully, and when he glanced in the rear view mirror the hair on the back of his head stood straight up. His eyes widened as he stepped on the gas, and the GTO leaped forward nimbly, just as the ground underneath them shook and the concrete cracked in long spiderweb patterns that snaked across the parking lot…
Seven
The Demon forced the corners of Sam's mouth to turn up into a smirk. "Oh, I see. Your boy is off somewhere else, being tricky, and he's left his faithful dog to guard the house."
Coyote ignored him.
Coyote closed his eyes, tilted his face up towards the sky. He raised his hands up waist high, palms out, and the storm responded to him.
Lightning crackled overhead, splitting the sky in two. The wind picked up, whistling and shrieking around the edges of the rooftop. A small vortex of air formed around Coyote, gently ruffling his ---Dean's --- hair and clothing. The loose gravel at his feet jumped and rippled as unseen waves of force radiated outwards from him in concentric circles.
Faithful dog this, bitch.
Coyote opened his eyes and growled softly to himself as he stepped forward. Despite the rain and the mist he stared at Sam and the Demon with the clear unblinking gaze of a top predator studying a prey animal.
Even though he was locked deep inside the prison of his body Sam actually flinched from the look, tried to submerge himself even deeper. The Demon suddenly had the feeling that using Sam Winchester as a human shield wasn't such a good idea. That would work only with Dean Winchester.
And Dean wasn't here.
"So, Roamer, how's that family thing workin' out for ya? This isn't the first time baby brother's shot your boy. He's afraid of you, Old Man. Your own family's afraid of you. You're nothing but a fugly, a critter, something that John would love to hunt down and kill."
Coyote bared his teeth, and his answering chuckle was a low throaty growl. "Wastin' your time, demon. Those head tricks of yours don't work on something like me."
"You want to strike back at them. I get it. I understand. But if you hurt Sammy, I don't think Deanie's gonna be too happy about that."
Coyote smiled slowly, slyly. The side-tilt of the head and the smile was…unpleasant. Somehow alien. Dean Winchester had never looked at Sam that way. Never. "Better tell it to someone who gives a damn. Boy's not drivin' now. I am."
"He's your blood. He's family," Azazel said shrilly as he made Sam step back. Damn dog….
"Got walled up all those years 'cause of him. Sasquatch ain't exactly a favorite of mine, y'know? And why are you even talkin' to me, anyway? Yap yap yap. You demon bastards don't know when to shut the fuck up."
Coyote moved, inhumanly fast, and he covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye. He was inside the circle and on Sam before Azazel could even move. The Demon felt something jerked out of him, away from him, from around him. The sensation passed and Azazel found himself still standing in the middle of the sigil.
The silver blade clattered to the bare pavement. The Demon couldn't hold it anymore.
It stared down at its hands and its couldn't stifle the cry that welled up in its throat. It didn't have to.
Azazel couldn't scream, or curse. It needed vocal cords to do that, and it didn't have any. Not anymore.
It stared at its hands, and they were smoke. It wasn't clothed in Sam Winchester's body anymore. There was nothing between him and the outside world. It still couldn't leave the sigil. It was trapped inside the circle.
Azazel knelt in the center of the sigil, a man shaped outline of dark billowing smoke. The symbols in the circle glowed with a queerly cold blue light. The demon's form was lit up from the inside by what looked like lightning flashes of the same peculiar ice blue light.
Its eyes bulged, its mouth gaped open in a soundless shriek of pain and horror.
Something was very wrong. It hurt. It was in pain, for the first time in a year, since that night in that backwoods cabin, and the sensation burned inside, white hot agony, enough to force it down on its knees, hard…
Eight
The GTO shuddered as the ground shook underneath its tires. Bobby pulled the car around the tangle of cars and buses and turned so they were facing the building again.
"What the hell d'ya think you're doin'?" John snapped.
"You gonna shoot me, you dumb jackass, go right ahead. Something's happening. Can't you see that? We can't stay in one spot."
"We're not leaving without my boys."
"We gotta move around, but we're not leaving," Bobby grated out. "You point that shotgun at me and I'll kick your ass right here and now."
Nine
Didn't hurt exactly, just felt funny, peculiar, something jerked out of him, sliding out as quickly as it has slid in before, and the jolt of hitting the ground ratted Sam's spine, but when the back of his head hit everything went blurry, a hazy white fog…
Hands on his face…large metal ring on the right hand … both hands rough, capable…
firm but gentle.
Dean was here. It was okay. Dean was back.
Sam opened his eyes and saw yellow.
Oh, shit…
Coyote straddled him, bore down on him with his full weight. Sam pushed against the gravel covered concrete with the palms of his hands. He kept moving his head, glancing down at the hand on his chest, then back up at those yellow eyes
"Stay still," Coyote growled softly. Sam was having a hard time wrapping his head around this. Sam blinked as he felt the bones of his left cheekbone knit back together. The same hands that killed John Winchester were the same hands that were now healing him. Sam recognized the familiar touch of those hands.
Those same hands had patched him up hundreds of times with stolen surgical needles and silk thread, bandages, they'd lifted him up, given him a hand, steadied him whenever he was feeling shaky, whenever those damn visions flared up inside his skull so hard and so painful the world went away in a smeary yellow blur of pain. That touch grounded him, helped him keep his sanity, always had, always would, and despite himself Sam leaned into Dean's hands gratefully.
Sam shifted his gaze slightly, tracked to the bloody hole in the shoulder of that battered brown leather jacket.
I shot him. I shot him with the Colt and he didn't die. He didn't…
"You killed Dad ---"
That intense stare softened. Coyote shook his head.
Sam stared at him, long and hard, and Coyote's gaze in return was mild, relaxed. It should have felt weird, intrusive, but it didn't. Coyote tilted his head down and slightly to the side as Sam stared at his eyes, and then the Old Man shrugged.
Can't hide what I am, kid. I won't.
"A word of advice," Coyote rumbled out loud, not unkindly, his voice as low and deep as thunder. "Stop shootin' your brother, yeah?"
Despite himself, Sam nodded.
Overhead, thunder rolled and lightning split the sky in two, strobing everything in stark white light.
Coyote stared into Sam's eyes and his own eyes widened in shock at what he saw behind him. Massive black wings unfurling slowly against that dried blood colored sky, and it was too soon for that, too fast, things had gone south but what else was fucking new, and Coyote's grip on Sam tightened almost to the point of being painful.
Sam stared down at his hands in disbelief. He was coming part at the seams, turning into thin white smoke even as he watched….
Something large and dark swept into his field of vision from the right. Dark wet blood flew into the air, and Coyote went sprawling.
Sam couldn't see anything anymore. Everything went white, there was no sound except for the panicked beating of his heart. He could hear himself breathing, great shuddering lungfuls of air, and he wondered how that was possible when he didn't even have a body anymore.
He cringed when he heard a low growl at his right side. Should have known Coyote was only tricking him, just setting him up for the kill. He should have known.
Another low growl, then a whimper.
"Condie, what the hell are you---"
Sam frowned to himself. Bobby. That wasn't right.
Everything came back in a snap that made his ears pop and his head ache. Sam cradled his head in his hands. He felt like he was two years old all over again, playing peekaboo with Dean in the back seat of the Impala, in some motel room or cabin somewhere.
Peekaboo, dude, I see you. Now give it up, why don't'cha.
He didn't want to pull his hands away, didn't want to open his eyes and look, but he had to, sooner or later.
Sam raised his head, opened his eyes, and stared straight into the startled eyes of John Winchester.
Ten
Feathers. Felt like feathers at first, brushing up against him, but hell, that couldn't be right. There were razors in the feathers 'cause he bled like a stuck pig where ever they touched him. His clothes were ripped and torn, just like his skin. He was on his back, legs and arms in an awkward sprawl. He felt weak; his body was too heavy. His right shoulder throbbed, a distant reminder of something he couldn't remember. It was all he could do but lay there, pushed up on his elbows.
Thunder boomed overhead. Dean ignored it. He stared straight ahead, transfixed by what he saw in front of him. Dean felt a desperate need want inside himself, wanted to kneel down, wanted to bow his head in supplication. He felt worthless, small, incredibly ugly.
He wasn't worthy to be in the presence of such a creature.
It – he -- was perfect. He was beautiful, inhumanly so. Seven feet tall, glorious, naked, sleek and muscular. Broad shoulders, slim hips. Skin the color of polished bronze, and the face of a fallen angel: full lips, high cheekbones, a patrician nose that was elegant and refined. Broad black wings spread out behind him, so large they seemed to reach easily up into the heavens above. Dean could see every detail, each feather, perfectly formed, just like the rest of him. Straight blue black hair hung almost to his waist, but it was the eyes that caught Dean, held him. They blazed at him, the color of molten gold.
Dean closed his eyes, shook his head to clear it. This wasn't right, it was too soon, they'd had a plan, but it was too soon, way too soon, they should've had more time…
Azazel…the demon, oh God, no…
"I see you, Dean. I see you, little boy," Azazel crooned in a sing-song voice, and Dean cringed as he opened his eyes again. Even the voice was so beautiful Dean couldn't stand it. It made his insides bleed. He couldn't ignore it. Didn't want to.
"You screwed up, sport. You really did." Azazel stepped forward, and Dean felt fear so strong he actually trembled. He pushed his body backwards into motion, backpedaled clumsily with his arms and legs.
Azazel smiled. Even at a distance that smile had an effect; Dean wanted to crawl over and kneel at Azazel's feet, wanted to place his forehead against Azazel's instep and beg for forgiveness. "So this is part of the ritual, huh? Return me to what I was before so you can vanquish me? I was Grigori before. A son of God. I was old when you were just a blind mewling pup suckling at your bitch mother's teat."
"And…and you still… talk… too damn much…" Dean gasped.
A small flicker of resistance guttered inside him, like that faint yellow glow in the center of his eyes.
Fight this, you stupid bastard. Fight it! This fucker killed Mom. He took Dad.
He'll make Sam his pet if you let him. Don't just lie there, get up. Get up. GET THE HELL UP, RIGHT NOW!
He couldn't.
His right hand hooked into a claw, fingers shifting uselessly through that loose gravel. A wave of hopelessness and despair made Dean's insides clench. He'd fucked up. Again.
Azazel reached out one massive hand.
"Dean. Come here."
Getting away from there was the only thing he could think of. Dean somehow turned himself over, tried to crawl away. His knees were rubbery, muscles loose and sprung, and nothing worked right. He was crawling on loose greasy marbles. He could hear Azazel's footsteps behind him, the slight rustle of those massive wings.
All his life his body was the one thing he could depend on, and now he didn't even have that. Even on his hands and knees the ground seemed a lot further away.
He crawled a few feet away, and then stopped.
Nothing he did mattered. Not any more.
He had one job, a simple one, really, take care of his family ---
--- just do that, Dean, why can't you even do that one simple thing ---
---and he just kept on fucking it up, over and over again. God, he was a worthless piece of shit. No good to anyone or anybody. Not his family, not the people he tried to save when he hunted. This whole town, murdered. All because of him.
Dean laughed out loud, at least he meant to, but what came out instead was a low, bitter sob that caught in his throat. He stared at the cracked and broken concrete under his fingers and shook his head in disgust. His breath hitched in his chest, he couldn't breathe. He stopped that silly business of trying to move and just crouched there, head hanging down, panting so hard his teeth showed in a wide humorless grin like a dog. Down on his knees like a dog, served him right, what the hell was he thinking, how could he and Coyote ever have thought they could even win this? What's dead should stay dead, and he should have been gone over a year ago, hell, would have saved the world a lot of pain and trouble…
Something large pushed into the small of his back, and as soon as he was touched he felt what little energy he had in him just…just go away. The pressure on his back increased as Azazel pushed down with his foot. At the last moment Dean turned his head to the side, saved himself from getting a mouthful of gravel.
"Knocked the Old Man into the background, just so you and I could have a little chat. Angel to freak. How's that?" Azazel purred.
"F-Fuck you…."
"You shoulda kept on going, kid. Gotten clear of this place. Maybe given John a chance to play medic, get that damn bullet out of you. But instead you came back, just like I knew you would. Poor pathetic Dean. Always putting yourself in harm's way for people that don't give a damn about you."
Azazel fisted the front of Dean's jacket with one hand. He turned him around, lifted him up until they were nose to nose.
"Sam shot you. Again," it whispered slyly into the shell of Dean's right ear. That voice filled him up. It was all the truth. He couldn't deny any of it…
…yess…
"John hates you…."
You're some unnatural, ungodly fugly, the same as that yellow-eyed bastard that killed my wife. Our lives were destroyed because of a thing like you. You're not Dean. You're not my son—
"You let his precious Mary die. You're a disappointment to everyone around you."
…everyone who loves me leaves me…
"You're just like the things he hunts."
…freak…'m a freak…
"Why don't you just give up, Dean?" Azazel whispered. "…let it go…"
Azazel smiled at him, and Dean moaned. That smile was too bright, too white. It was so beautiful, and he was only a dirty human. He didn't deserve it. "You gotta maintain your concentration to keep tricking Colt's bullet, isn't that right? You can stop now, Dean. It's all right. Let it go…"
Dean's eyes flashed a peculiar cold white glow. His grip on the bullet loosened. The silver and the killing magic slowly pulsed inside him, and he didn't care anymore…
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A/N : Yeah, yeah, I know. Another life-threatening cliffhanger for one Mr. Dean Winchester. Don't hate me. I enjoy this. Maybe too much. I also enjoy reading your reviews, so don't be shy. You guys haven't been so far, so why start now?
I figured I'd end it here. What? Don't look at me like that. This chapter would have been way too long (thirty pages!), so I cut it in two. Second part is already written; will post it Monday.
Next: Dean, Sam, John and Bobby fight for their lives at Wal-Mart.