A/N: We're back! I was going to post this and Appointment with Samirah last Sunday morning. FFnet was down. Then it was up. Then it was down again. Now it's up again, for good, I hope. Before that it was down for nearly two weeks. This up and down stuff makes me really nervous, so I decided to wait a couple of days this time to see if it stayed up. Soundtrack for this chapter: the extended version of the theme from the television show Cold Case, by ES Posthumus.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.
Chapter 53
Once he was her bright and shining baby boy. Mary never forgot the feel of Dean's silky blonde hair underneath her fingertips, the weight of his sturdy little body as she held him in her arms.
Years later, many deaths later, hers, his, and early everyone he's ever loved, Dean's different now.
Dean still shines, but he's an adult now, inhumanly beautiful, dressed in black from head to toe. The air around him blazes with a dark and terrible light.
Mary drowns in it. She's dimly aware of a pair of strong arms wrapped around her body (JohnJohnJohn) and she desperately leans into the touch. John Winchester is the only anchor she has now, the only way she has to keep from slipping underneath the rising tide, and she clings to him, breathes in his scent (leather and gunpowder, faint scent of aftershave, the last bottle she bought for him before she died).
Mary clings to John, but she only has eyes for Dean now.
His eyes blaze green, gold, and copper, and she can't help but think that her firstborn son, her darling boy, looks just like something her family would hunt.
The grubby looking nine year old kid with the backpack changes as the irate Horseman turns in his direction. Charlie's wide eyed, dirt smudged face shifts, turns pale, skeletal and transparent in the blink of an eye. He gathers his funeral shroud around his body and streaks for the open dark sky above.
He's quick.
Dean is quicker.
"Where you goin', Casper?" Dean rumbles. He raises his left hand and makes a fist. Charlie jerks to a stop in mid-air: he flails wildly as his own shroud turns traitor against him. It expands and engulfs him as it wraps itself tightly around his impossibly thin frame. He's covered in it now, from head to toe, his knees folded underneath his chin. A casual flick of Dean's wrist and Charlie hits the ground hard a few feet away.
The one hundred fifty refugees on the highway don't react to any of this. They don't move back, and they don't run away. Dean won't allow it. None of them look human to him anymore. They're shifting flares of orange and yellow heat. For a moment, just a moment, he thinks about how easy it would be to put their lights out forever. He could reduce them to dust with a wave of his hand, but that would be too damn easy.
She held the gun to Samirah's head, but the rest of them are just as guilty as that bitch in the brown sheriff's deputy uniform. Dean knows her entire history in less than a heartbeat: Darlene Kibbe, thirty two years old, married, husband serving in Afghanistan. The two kids standing a few feet away are hers. There's no doubt that it. Kibbe doesn't even glance in their direction, and Dean knows he can hurt he just as much as she tried to hurt him. The other girl (Paula) stands frozen with her arms wrapped around her little brother; she gives Dean a dirty look that plainly tells him she hopes he goes straight to hell.
The way this day is going, he just might.
Dean hears the slow steady rasp of Samirah's breathing behind him. He won't turn around. He can't. The sight of her lying still and broken on the ground would surely break him now. Ordinarily Samirah's spirit shines huge, lively and brighter than the noonday sun. Now, dulled and dimmed by Lillith's white darkness, Samirah is a pale reflection of her former self.
My fault, Dean thinks. All my fucking fault.
He can't sense Sam and the others, knows that Samirah needs Chale now. Chale could heal her with a touch, but he's missing now. Something's happened. Something bad.
The rage, grief and self-hatred that rises up inside Dean fuels the great and terrible engine at his core. The captive humans flinch at the brightness of Dean's eyes.
His fellow Horsemen and their mounts followed him to this place. They came willingly, and it's all his damn fault. Everything is. They shouldn't have come, should have ridden away from this place. None of this matters if he loses the ones he loves the most, and he's already lost so damn much….
Gaelen…Samirah's thought voice is softened by fatigue and pain.
It's me. Dean answers softly, silently. I'm here.
Is this…is this a dream? I dreamed about you, just like before.
Dean takes a deep breath as he lies easily, effortlessly. Everything's fine.
He couldn't hate himself any more than he already does right now.
Tired…I just need to rest…a little more…
It's okay. That's a lie, a damn lie, but he's got nothing else. You don't have to get up now. It's all right. He sends a light, soothing thought touch down the curve of her neck. Samirah whickers softly in response.
You need to rest for a little while longer. Go back to sleep. I'm gonna move you now, okay? Get you out of here, to someplace warm, someplace safe…
Samirah flicks her ears slightly. She feels the change around her, senses the sunlight against her skin, but it doesn't warm her much. The cushion of sand underneath her body feels softer than the gravel by the highway did.
She's still too tired to open her eyes, so she keeps them closed. The coldness inside her fills her up, weighs her down. Her right foreleg feels strange. Bones shift underneath her skin, and she doesn't understand why. That's wrong, just like the worry in Gaelen's voice. He tries to hide it, but she could always tell when he was lying.
Her nostrils flare weakly at the sharp tang of salt water.
Samirah drifts. She's always loved the ocean, always enjoyed the feeling of the water frothing around her ankles. She remembers the day she taught Nahele how to walk on water. He was just a foal, barely two months old, and he stared at her wide-eyed in amazement when he saw her boldly walk out onto the lake.
Nahele was unsure about it, but he trusted her. He moved cautiously, daintily as he followed her out, and the sudden shock of cold water spray against his wildly spotted skin and his tiny hooves made him shiver all over.
Samirah stood there patiently, waiting. Water glistened off her sleek black coat. He stepped out even further, his eyes grown even wider with surprise that he was able to do what his dam did so effortlessly.
Even now the memory of his young, voice soothes her.
Am I doing it right, Mama? Am I doing it right?
You're safe now, Gaelen whispers softly inside Samirah's head. I'll be right back.
"Mary?" John whispers softly. "Babe, talk to me."
It's the second incident in twenty minutes, stronger than the last time. Whatever this connection is, it's not gentle, it's violent, overwhelming. Mary moans out loud, a rough, desperate sound, as her eyes roll white and her head lolls forward onto John's broad chest.
"Oh my God," Deanna Campbell gasps. She sways on her feet, and Samuel Campbell puts his arms around her as he leans into her and steadies her. Campbell looks stoic, but the thin set of his mouth, the calm look on his face is deceiving.
"Dean," Mary whispers.
He holds Mary tight to him, and for a moment he can fool himself into thinking she's still alive. That he's still alive, that they're not spirits riding in an elevator at the Imperial Palace in Vegas. They have the illusion of life in this place. They can touch, and feel, but only within the warded boundaries of the Palace. Mary has no heartbeat, she doesn't really breathe, none of them do, but the illusion in this place is complete, and somehow comforting.
Mary digs her fingernails through John's shirt and his jacket as she clutches at him. The pain is bright and sharp, but he bears it willingly. He'll be her anchor. He has to be. If she lets go, she's lost, possibly forever.
The others stand around helplessly. Jim Murphy, Caleb and the Campbells are hunters, but this isn't something they can hunt down and kill. Tessa's the only non-human in the group and for a brief moment John feels anger at the female reaper, even though he knows he's being an ass about this whole thing. This isn't Tessa's fault.
Somehow, it's Dean's.
"Mary," John whispers. "I'm here. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me." He scoops her up in his arms, and that's the only jarring detail in all this, the one thing that destroys the illusion of normal: Mary's as light as a feather.
John nods at Tessa as the reaper hits the stop button for the eighth floor. Caleb and Jim Murphy take point out in the hallway. Tessa moves ahead and opens the door of the nearest room as the Campbells bring up the rear, behind John and Mary.
Mary's eyes flutter open. "J-John?"
"I'm here, baby."
She looks dazed, confused. "The light hurts my eyes. Where am I?"
"We were on our way down in the elevator," John whispers into the shell of Mary's ear. He steps into the room, hurries over to the bed with her as the rest follow him in. They stand around as he gently places her on the bed. "You called Dean's name and you passed out. What's going on?"
"Losing him," Mary moans out loud.
"Losing who?" John asks the question, but he already knows the answer.
He sees it in Mary's eyes. It's the damndest thing. Mary stares wide-eyed at something…someone…only she can see. John sees a reflection of copper tinted light that is all too familiar.
The dark shape in the center of the light is familiar, too. Those broad shoulders, the familiar set of that head, tilted slightly to one side.
"Dean," Mary whispers softly. "Johnnn…"
"I'm here, baby. I'm here."
"Dean's so angry. He thinks he's failed everything and everybody. He's…he's going to kill them."
"Kill who?"
"The people by the road. He's going to kill them all."
Dean's power sings underneath his skin. It flows into the air around him.
He'll help Samirah somehow. He has to.
He'll find Sam, Tiesen, Rika, and Chale.
He has to.
But right now Dean thinks of Samirah lying broken on the ground. Lillith maimed Samirah. She did it and laughed about it. Her time will come, but she's not here. These humans are.
This insult has to be avenged. Now.
"On your knees, bitch," Dean growls. His voice rolls like thunder. Power flexes in the air all around him. Battered road signs shake and rattle. Car alarms wail like lost children.
The woman tries to stop herself, but her body immediately responds to Dean's spoken command. She moves stiffly, with slow, jerky movements, her eyes wide with fear as she settles onto her knees.
Dean stares at the two Kibbe children, and then his gaze, moss green and bright copper, shifts back to Deputy Kibbe. "Those your kids?"
Her eyes widen in fear. "No. No, they're not-"
"Sure they are." Dean drawls lazily. "Rick and Paula, right?" The smile he gives Kibbe is bright and terrible. He unfreezes the boy and the girl where they stand, and sure enough they both rush over to her mother.
Kibbe goes deathly pale.
Her kids wrap themselves around her. The boy hugs his mother around her waist. The girl hugs her mom around her shoulders.
No one notices the slight displacement of air all around. Unseen threads of shifting pale energy gather, then become human-shaped, solid.
No one but Dean notices.
The reapers arrive.
They're all impossibly gaunt, deathly pale, dressed in dusty black suits. Their pale wrinkled faces are immovable, granite cliffs devoid of emotion. They have a job to do, and they are confident that Dean will do his.
Charlie the pet reaper isn't even worth a glance from any of the others. That one was young and stupid. He wanted an out from this unlife, intended to reap the Horseman's mount, and if Death wants to take the youngster, well, so be it. That's none of their concern. They're here for the humans.
Death understands that.
Three of them take up position near Darlene Kibbe and her children.
"Do whatever you want to me." Kibbe sounds surprisingly calm at first, all things considered. "The gun was my idea. Mine. No one else." Her voice cracks as she hugs her children. "Please. Don't hurt my kids. Please. Please don't-"
Dean likes the fear in her voice just fine. Back in the old times, back when he was fully Gaelen, he'd stood like this among reapers and humans alike. He never relished seeing fear or regret in human eyes then, never enjoyed seeing it, but he does now. Then he was a part of something bigger than himself, whether working alone or as a team with the others. Samirah stood by his side then.
And that's the whole point now.
"Your horse needed help -"
"SHE DOESN'T NEED YOUR HELP!" Dean roars.
He could turn them all into dust with a gesture, but that would be too slow. He wants, no, needs for them to see this death coming.
Fire will do nicely.
A perfect circle of barely visible flame several inches tall appears in a ring around Dean. The wind picks up. It whistles and howls like a living thing, fanning the flames as it ripples through the grass at his feet. The color of the flames changes as the flames inch higher, from dull red to cherry red. The color deepens, to bright, clear copper orange. The sparse grass around Dean's feet blackens, and then just as suddenly, the flames fade out to white, then disappears altogether.
It's a neat trick. The Kibbes and the rest of the humans stare at Dean wide-eyed.
"You want to keep your family together?" Dean says brightly. He doesn't even wait for an answer. "I get it. I do. I can help you with that."
White hot flames reappear several feet away from each human. The wall of flame is a foot tall, and at least that wide. It makes its slow, patient way towards its victims. The sparse grass underfoot curls and blackens, the gravel fuses into brown, grey and black slag.
The reapers wait patiently, their pale wrinkled faces impassive, as devoid of all emotion as the rocky cliffs of a faraway mountainside.
The younger boy, Rick, turns his face into his mother's side. Kibbe's fingers shake slightly as she cards her son's hair. She gently kisses daughter Paula on her forehead. "Close your eyes," Kibbe whispers. "Don't look, babies, don't look…"
"Dean…nooo…" Mary moans. She leans into John, buries her face in his chest. "I love you, sweetie….don't do this…please…please don't…"
The wind picks up. The flames grow taller, dancing, shifting blades of hungry white flame.
"Dean…"
The word echoes insides Dean's head. For a moment, he doesn't recognize the voice. Dean's power sings underneath his skin, an ocean of unimaginable light and ancient power.
This voice, this whisper, is new. It's a small thing, really, but some of the biggest, most persistent things of power usually are.
"Dean…"
Dean wavers. The flames inch their way towards the Kibbes and the rest of the captive humans.
Unseen fingers gently glide across his right cheekbone.
"I love you, sweetie…"
Another light touch, this time ruffling the hair over his forehead. He smells peach scented hand lotion.
Scent of peanut butter cookies in the air around him (baked them just for you, kiddo) and for one wild moment he feels warm water against his skin, and his nostrils flare at the scent of that Mr. Bubble bubble bath Mom knew he liked so much.
Come on Dean, let's go for a ride, you wanna go to the park today, big fella?
Dean shakes his head. No. This is a trick, it has to be…
It isn't. The touch is light and achingly familiar. He can't deny it. If he does, he'd be denying himself.
His power rises up, eternal, demanding (they deserve this death, they all do) and the sound of Mary Winchester's voice inside her eldest son's head is a soft whisper that drowns out everything else.
"…don't do this…please…please don't…"
Dean stares at Darlene Kibbe and her children. The image of the woman deputy shifts, changes.
Mary Winchester sits on the ground where the Kibbe family once sat. Her long blonde hair gently frames her face. The long white gown she wears looks like the one she wore the last time Dean saw her alive.
The wall of flames is inches away from her now.
"No," Dean says out loud. He never told Sam or Dad what he saw that night. Never said he saw Mom on the ceiling.
"Please…" Dean groans. "Not again. Not again..."
This is terribly different, but it feels exactly the same.
She looked so pale, so sad that night. He was little. He was weak. He couldn't help her, and he's always hated himself for that.
"Mommm…" Dean's voice breaks. The sound is not one an adult would make. A Horseman has never sounded like that. This is the voice of a child faced with unimaginable loss, face to face with it again, after all this time.
Mary stares at Dean with love and affection, fierceness and unconditional love.
Gaelen never had that.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"
Gaelen's lullaby was hostile looks and whispers from his family ("That boy's unnatural, I tell you…spawn of the Devil.") and finally, on that late spring morning, the shrill sound of metal against metal as his own father stood in the barn, and sharpened his ax so he could use it on his only son.
Mary smiles at Dean. When she speaks he can't hear her voice over the crackle of the flames, but he hears her voice just the same.
"Angels are watching over you, baby. They always are. Remember that…"
A sudden spasm of grief and rage shudders through Dean. His broad shoulders shake. Those feathered fucks watched. That was all they did.
And he couldn't help her. Couldn't save her…
"I love you, Dean. I always have."
Miles away, cradled in John Winchester's arms, Mary smiles wearily. "…always have, always will…"
"Mom," Dean whispers brokenly. "'m sorry. 'm so damn sorry…"
The copper glow in his eyes dims. The great, terrible engine inside Dean Winchester comes to a sudden halt. Without his energies to sustain and guide them, the flames wink out of existence.
The reapers stand motionless. Silent, watchful.
Their faces flicker slightly.
This…this is a mistake. It has to be.
Death just stands there, resplendent in midnight black. He should have released all the humans there, should have killed them all, but he didn't. Instead his broad shoulders heave with silent sobs, tears stream down his impossibly handsome face.
Reapers have gained insight into human emotion from centuries of reaping humans. They've come to expect unpredictability. Humans are the biggest source of that in the universe.
Humans, not Horsemen. Even with everything that's happened so far, they were so sure that Death would play his role, especially after what nearly happened to his horse…
One of the reapers standing next to the Kibbe family steps forward. Its face is passive; there's no emotion, just a calm, inhuman mask. It's thought voice is calm, respectful, but firm: What is the meaning of this?
None of them are prepared for what the Horseman does next.
His head snaps up and his lips skin back from his teeth in a ferocious snarl. Those moss green eyes blaze copper bright and feral. A wave of energy reaches out and envelops each reaper, freezing them in place.
For the first time in existence, surprise and shock freezes those craggy faces, and then each reaper winks out in a haze of copper light.
And after a moment, Death does too.
It's as if they'd been playing a game of "Simon Says" and Simon finally said, "Simon says move."
All the humans on the highway unfreeze, one after another.
"Momma, what the hell just happened?" Paula Kibbe blurts out.
Darlene shakes her head. Even though she's warned Paula about that potty mouth of hers, the question's a damn good one.
And Kibbe doesn't have an answer.
Darlene hugs her kids so tight they fuss and grumble as she enjoys their warmth and heartbeats against her skin. "I don't know, baby. I just don't know."
Tension flows out of Mary's body like a river overflowing its banks. John feels her breathing even out after Whatever this is, whatever this connection is, it lessens and dims.
"Mary?" John whispers, and he wonders exactly why he's whispering. Everyone else in the room stands quietly, solemnly, as if they were standing in a hospital waiting room inside of a hotel room high above the Vegas Strip.
"He's okay," Mary whispers softly.
"Are you okay?"
Another nod. Mary sighs and relaxes in John's embrace. She's too lulled to notice, but John doesn't relax. He's waiting for the next time, for the next bad thing to come rolling in. It will happen, he's sure of it, especially in this place.
For a brief second John hears Sam's voice solemnly repeating the words he'd drilled into his sons so long ago: "Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. You can count on that."
Coming Attractions: Samirah and Dean reunite, and Samirah gets her four legged groove back. Castiel torments Sam and the Horsemen, and Circe makes Dean an offer he dare not refuse. Dean spends some quality time with Lillith and Abaddon, and some of the tourists at Treasure Island find that Vegas is not all it's cracked up to be. Things get bad at the Imperial Palace, and the situation at the Roadhouse goes downhill.
