Chapter 54
A/N: Soundtrack for this chapter - "Cold Case Theme - The Long Version" by E.S. Posthumus
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.
A black Escalade pulls up outside Leone's Pizza Palace in Chicago. The vehicle looks normal, but the beings inside are anything but.
No one notices, but that's because the street is deserted. The sky overhead is bright and sunny, yet hailstones the size of silver dollars rain down from the sky. When the hailstones hit the ground, bright yellow and orange flames erupt out of thin air. The flames eat into concrete, canvas awnings, tree limbs, then just as suddenly wink out.
Old Famine frowns at the thump of frozen hellfire on the roof above his head. His wispy white hair frames his thin face like a halo. The old Horseman wheezes heavily despite his nasal cannula. He looks almost skeletal, little more than pale, sickly skin stretched tightly over sharp angular bones. The black suit he wears is a size too big, but even so his stomach is bigger than it should be for his thin frame. He can never get enough to eat, but that's the way it's always been with him. Old Famine thinks of the Famine in this reality, that female and her big white horse, and his lip curls up in a sneer. Stupid bitch and her stupid damn horse.
The seven demons sitting around him occupy four male and three female meatsuits, all stolen, all live meat, at least for the moment. Old Famine can't abide being around dead flesh. The very idea bothers him. He can't inspire that terrible hunger in dead things anyway. He likes routine, so he's dressed his servants in signature black suits and black sunglasses.
He can't tell what they're thinking, and quite frankly, doesn't care. Demons are stupid, but useful. He's already killed two of them back home in order to power their journey over here, and they have to know that he'll kill two or three more for the return trip. Doesn't matter. Each one thinks the other will die.
"Come on then," Old Famine snaps. His fingers shake as he gestures at the pizza storefront. "We don't have all day. Go get my brother."
The demons pretend not to notice the fleeting look of panic on his withered face. "The sooner you bring him here, the sooner we can leave this place."
The demons move out briskly. Old Famine shakes his head, makes a soft sound of disgust as doors are opened and everyone leaves except the driver. Her chauffeur's cap is set straight, her smooth red hair brushed back from her shoulders. She stares straight ahead with a slight smile on her perfect, heart-shaped face. He thinks she knows she'll be the only one he won't touch, the one he'll leave alive, and only because he can't drive the damn SUV himself.
The sky continues to spit fire, and none of the demons outside flinch, not even when stray embers spark and singe their hair and clothes. They bat the sparks out and walk into the pizza place without blinking an eye.
The ancient Horseman shudders as he looks around. He hates this place. The rules are twisted here. Unnatural. There was a time when he would have flung his power outward, would have amused himself by making the humans hiding in the buildings around him come down with that awful, consuming hunger. They would have poured out onto the streets, would have eaten each other alive, literally. Old Famine would have clapped his hands in delight as he watched.
He doesn't dare do that now. He's acutely aware that this dimension is teetering on the brink of oblivion, but that's not what stays his hand. It's best to keep a low profile this time, and that's the first time in his immortal life he's ever done that. He watches the singed red and white checkered awning over the front door, and all he can think of is a vengeful green-eyed Horseman on a huge black horse.
The Horsemen over here are young. They're strong and beautiful, and they actually ride horses. How literal.
Worse than that, they actually ride together. And they seem to enjoy each other's company.
Disgusting.
Where he comes from Horsemen don't ride together that often, not unless they absolutely have to. That's mainly because they can't stand each other's company for any length of time.
Old Famine has always been closer to Old Death. Pestilence is a loner. Always has been. He definitely doesn't play well with others. Best to let him be. He's more comfortable spreading his maggots, flies and disease germs anyway.
Famine's never cared for War. War is too hot blooded, too arrogant. He's the most physically fit one of them all. Eons ago War was fascinated with gunpowder, spears, catapults, vats of burning oil. Not anymore. He's adopted all these shiny new things like his red classic mustang, that accursed smartphone, those fancy designer clothes. He uses the internet and those Twitter and Facebook things to whip the humans up into a murderous frenzy. When he gets bored War goes on the internet and incites cyber-bullying. He has thousands of victims to his credit that way. Some of them have committed murder, others suicide.
Cyberbullying. Old Famine shakes his head ruefully at the thought. The old ways are the best. These new things? No craftsmanship. No style.
His eyes narrow as his demons reappear. They carry Old Death slumped over between them, shielding him from the hailstones above with their suit jackets. Old Famine sees a flash of pale skin, glimpses that raw, red handprint. He nearly strangles on the need to send his power out, to kill hundreds, thousands of humans. He doesn't.
"You old fool," Old Famine murmurs to himself. "You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" He won't chastise his brother Horseman in public, not around the demons, their inferiors. That can wait until later.
You came over here, Old Famine thinks to himself, tried to impose your will on this Death. And look where it got you. There is no natural order in this place. Not any more.
When the doors slide open the demons gently place Old Death onto the center seat. His resemblance to a fragile, broken bird is remarkable, and somehow unsettling. His glassy grey eyes blearily focus on his brother.
"…yuh…you…came…"
All Old Famine can do is nod as the demons take their seats inside the vehicle and close the doors behind them.
"…too weak…" Old Death murmurs. He sways in his seat as one of the demons carefully fastens his seatbelt and shoulder strap around him. He slumps forward tiredly, despite the restraints. He's so pale and washed out, that handprint on his throat seems realer than the rest of him.
"We have to leave now, but it's all right. You can eat on the way," Old Famine nods at the demons who sit on either side of his brother. "I brought lunch."
Old Death smiles.
There are no people here. Never have been, and that's the whole point. This place is wild, unspoiled, one step removed from our reality. Dense green forests in the valley, towering granite mountains nearby, pure white beaches. There is life here, of course, just not the human kind. That was never intended in the grand plan here. Brightly colored seabirds wheel overhead. Small weasel like critters crouch nervously in the shadows at the treeline fifty feet away and stare at the newcomers on the beach. The little critters are always in motion, curious about everything, but they're smart enough not to come any closer.
The great horse lies still and quiet; her only movement is the labored rise and fall of her barrel as she breathes. Her rider sits in the sand next to her head. He's as still as a statue, the expression on his face eerily calm, almost blank, as he stares at his companion.
There was a time when they enjoyed being in this place.
This was freedom, this was peace, at least for a while. No human civilizations to destroy or lay to rest. Nothing to do but be free and be themselves.
The last time they were here Samirah danced on the surface of the ocean waves like a frisky newborn. She charged down the beach, kicking up waves of water as she ran. Half a mile away she discovered a huge waterfall that flowed over rough brown rocks, and she ran and nimbly skipped over the rocks for a short time before came back.
Gaelen shed his boots, cassock and greatcoat and walked out onto the water. He knelt and lazily ran his fingers underneath the waves. Small fish gathered to nibble at his fingertips, but then the sharks came and the small fry scurried away. The great whites ranged around Gaelen in a circle as he knelt there.
The largest one, a magnificent female, rose up from the depths and gently nuzzled the side of Gaelen's foot. It was a friendly gesture, awkward and somehow endearing ("Howdy!") from one death to the biggest one.
The shark swam away smiling as Gaelen laughed out loud.
That was then. This is now, and this is definitely not a happy time.
Over in the so-called "real world", by the highway, Dean's rage blinded him from seeing what Samirah really looked like. In some perverse way he was grateful for that.
Now Dean can't look away. His expression is curiously blank, his eyes slightly widened. A muscle in his right jaw twitches slightly as he stares at her delicately dished profile. Not so delicate now; it's thinner, almost skeletal. Her eyes are closed, but not all the way. There's an icy white reflection that curves just underneath those long, dark eyelashes of hers.
Dean swallows past that suddenly hard lump in his throat.
Samirah seems smaller somehow. Her coat is rough and dry, a washed out grey, not glossy midnight black. Each rib is outlined underneath her thin, fragile coat.
The world seems to draw away from them; horse and man are in their own little bubble now. The snap and hiss of blue-green waves on white sand recedes into the background. Samirah's breathing, rough and labored, is the only sound that matters to Dean now.
The blankness on his face softens as he stares at her. She seems at peace now, but that's a lie and he knows it. He can hear Lillith's white darkness rumbling underneath her skin.
There's not much time left, and Dean knows that too.
Right hand's still no good, still a stump, and that's all. He can't even feel his phantom fingers anymore. That doesn't matter. Not anymore. He ignores his missing hand, just as he ignores Samirah's mangled right foreleg. He will not look at it again. Dean uses his teeth to remove his left glove. He leans forward as he reaches out with his left.
One hand is all he needs, for what he has in mind.
"It's me," Dean says softly. "I'm here."
Silence flows into the moment that follows. Dean listens for Samirah's answer. There isn't one. His shoulders slump slightly.
"I knew you'd remember this place. You always liked it here. I didn't forget." Dean gently, softly, cards her forelock with his fingers. Her normally fine, luxurious hair feels thin and dry now.
Samirah's breathing softens a little, and Dean's mask drops all the way, right along with his defenses. He doesn't look vast and powerful and eternal as he did mere moments before. He looks young and somehow vulnerable. His eyes are moist, too bright with the knowledge that he's facing a yet another loss he's not sure he can take.
The rest of the Horsemen are missing. And the way Samirah looks now is just more proof of how useless he is. He ruins everyone he touches.
"Don't be mad at me," Dean whispers hesistantly.
The next inhale Samirah takes sounds shocked, angry. She doesn't open her eyes, but her nostrils flare wider than they did before. He can almost imagine her glaring at him, eyes open, ears pricked.
"I've got something in mind. Might be a way to get you clear of this." He strokes her jibbah, the slight bulge of her forehead. It's funny, he'd always thought that was where her soul and her personality resided, barely caged inside that hard head of hers. Human horsemen think the jibbah is just an oversized sinus cavity in the Arabian horse, but Dean knows better.
Dean's eyes grow distant, unfocused. "I don't know if it's even gonna work, but I've got to try it. I don't know what else to do." He frowns as he comes back to himself.
Dean closes his eyes as he takes a long, slow breath that makes his throat and chest hitch. When he opens his eyes again a single tear slides down one finely chiseled cheekbone. "I can't heal you. Chale can. And I don't know where he and Sam and Tiesen and Rika are. I wanted to kill those people by the highway for you." He sniffs noisily. "Couldn't do it. I think I'm losing my fucking mind…my...my Mom…I thought I saw her here…" Dean shakes his head in disbelief.
Samirah whickers at him, a soft, low sound, a faint echo in the space behind Dean's eyes.
…it's all right…
Dean's green eyes widen in shock, then spark bright copper in response.
Gaelen's here now.
"Every time I dreamed about you," Gaelen says with a sad, quiet smile, "that was the first time in my life I knew who I was. Who I was meant to be all along. You were well named. You were always my entertaining companion, and there were times when I knew…when I thought you deserved better than me. I'm sorry I left you before. I never meant to cause you pain."
Gaelen cocks his head slightly to one side. White static rises up inside Samirah. He can't make out the words this time.
It's time.
Gaelen sits back, and then stands up in one smooth motion.
He's Gaelen, he's Dean, and neither one knows exactly where the other one ends. Gaelen recedes, but he doesn't go very far. Dean staggers a little. He turns his back on Samirah, stares out at the ocean and the far horizon. Breaking contact like that makes him feel like he's dying inside, but he backs up, takes a few steps away from her. He stares at her broken body and his face twists into an expression of exquisite pain and grief.
The sky overhead darkens in response. Thick clouds roll in, backlit by gigantic flashes of lightning.
He wants to scream out loud. Wants to shake Heaven's rafters, wants to scream until the ground beneath his feet cracks and Hell itself rises up, spills up and over. Falling apart like that is the one thing he can never allow himself to do.
The next breath Dean takes is a long, slow shudder that makes his chest hitch. He turns and stares at Samirah, and his expression changes. It's not that carefully crafted mask. Dean's mouth firms up into a thin line. There's an equally hard glint in his eyes.
God said she could depend on me, he thinks to himself. Depend on me fucking everything up. Sometimes it seems that's all I do. All those times I should have stayed dead, I kept coming back. And I keep messing up everyone I love. Everyone.
He turns and stares at Samirah. His lips firm into a hard, thin line.
Not anymore. Not this time.
The sky overhead lightens back to that perfect blue.
Samirah's breathing roughens. …what…what are you... doing…
"I'm making this up as I go along," Dean murmurs. His eyes glow copper as he sharpens his focus. He places his left hand on her right shoulder, palm down, fingers spread. His left hand shimmers with copper highlights.
His eyes unfocus as he stares at Samirah's grayish black coat. He sees the whiteness inside her, feels the weight of it.
Gaelen remembers bringing Death. The first job he'd gone on, he'd walked slowly, calmly, through a crowd of humans. One of the townspeople snarled at Gaelen as he pushed past him, unaware that he was rushing towards eternity. That brief contact, shoulder brushing against shoulder, was all it took. The man turned instantly pale, dead and lifeless before he hit the ground.
He wasn't the first, and he certainly wasn't the last.
Gaelen walked through the crowd that day, barely brushing his fingers against bare skin. Hearts stuttered to a complete stop in seconds. Electrical impulses in human brains all around him flickered out like candles in a high wind. Some of the humans suspected who he was, and they ran.
He and Samirah made sure they didn't get far.
The entire city died that day, and Gaelen didn't give it much thought. It was what he was created for, after all. He never had to be shown, or taught. He just knew. He couldn't explain, couldn't find the words to describe how it felt.
Just like this. He's making this up as he goes along. It's damned crazy, and it doesn't make sense.
It's the only option he has for Samirah now.
Dean feels the weight of the Spear of Destiny in the hidden space at his back, between his cassock and hooded greatcoat.
The weight reminds him of Sam.
It's only fitting. Sam helped him out in the desert, when Uriel tried to kill him with the damned thing. Sam was there when Dean stashed the useless thing back there, apparently just on a whim, for all the good it's done so far.
Dean thinks of the first time he saw Sam after Devil's Gate.
He sees it in his mind's eye, as clear as if it were yesterday. Anna and Uriel and Castiel stand behind Sam, and they're smiling as though they're all such good damn friends. They come to make a deal, Dean can be Heaven's bitch instead of Lillith, but Dean looks at Sam and sees the truth.
Sam's afraid of him. That's bad enough. What's worse is the damage Sam took, the damage Uriel tried to hide by healing Sam.
Time for you to learn to respect your elders, mud monkey boy.
Because of me, Dean thinks. They beat my brother because of me.
Sam was a spirit then, but he could still be hurt. If the flesh has sense memory, then the soul surely has sense memory too.
Two black eyes, three broken ribs. Right arm broken in two places, and that was just for starters. Sam sustained severe internal injuries that would have killed a normal person, but an angel, damn their feathered ass, could keep a soul on the edge, writhing in misery.
Which was what Uriel did.
Uriel was the one that Dean was really interested in, but the others would pay for this too.
Dean pulled the memory of Sam's injuries into him that day. He felt his jaw fracture, his right arm break in two places.
He doesn't keep it. That's the trick, the point of the whole thing.
Dean surges behind Anna, Castiel and Uriel in a blur of motion. He reaches out and touches them, gives them the same kind treatment Uriel gave Sam.
Anna's nose crumples just like Sam's did. Dark red blood gushes over her upper lip, down her chin.
Castiel's arm breaks, dark purplish bruises bloom over both eyes.
Uriel's jaw fractures, and the angels gasp and moan as the violence that was done to Sam Winchester in secret finally sees the light of day.
Dean comes back to himself. He can hear Lillith's white darkness as it buzzes and snaps underneath Samirah's skin. It coats her muscles and her bones.
That well-known copper spark ignites in Dean's eyes. He focuses his power through his skin, sends it downward, into Samirah's body.
It's a simple thing really. Just a touch. His fingertips turn pale as Lillith's white darkness seeps up through Samirah's pores and curls around his flesh.
The whiteness seems to laugh. It's not words, but Dean hears it all the same. That all you got, boy?
"Not quite," Dean mutters. "Come home to Papa, you sonofabitch."
He jerks forward as he hooks his power into the damned thing. Dean steadies himself, and then he pulls backward. Hard.
Samirah bucks upward. Her three good legs flail violently, then she falls back onto her side. Her eyes open. They're white, not copper bright. She tosses her head.
Samirah screams.
She breathes hard and fast now. Dean can feel the rapid inhale and exhale of her lungs. Her heart thunders in her chest.
Dean opens himself wide.
The darkness rushes in.
He jerks upright as a tidal wave of whiteness flows up his left arm underneath his clothes. The chords in his neck strain and tighten, and his jaws snap together painfully as he bites back the scream that rises in his throat. Whiteness fills the world, shrieking and laughing, and it's worse than it ever was before.
Dean can't move; he's frozen in place. All over his body the veins and blood vessels underneath his skin bulge up, thick and throbbing. Dean exhales thin wisps of white vapor. Thin trails of white flow out of his tear ducts, from his nose and the corners of his mouth.
His skin is glazed with the stuff. He turns pale white in a heartbeat; his freckles disappear. The whiteout rises up all around him.
Samirah's still now, still as death. He can't even tell if she's breathing or not.
Please…Dean thinks to himself.
Please…Gaelen murmurs.
It's not enough, not yet. He has to take it all in, has to keep it all.
Another wave of white flows over him, then sinks deep within his skin. Dean jerks backward with the impact, but he refuses to let go. His hand never leaves Samirah's right shoulder.
He blinks at her, whiteness caking those impossibly long, dark eyelashes of his, and that's when he sees it.
Samirah glows.
It's faint at first. The copper bright glow starts in her jibbah, and flows down her body, growing, brightening. The color of Samirah's coat deepens to a splendid midnight black.
Dean watches as the bones in Samirah's right foreleg pushes back underneath her skin. Her leg straightens out as the bones mend back together. Her smooth skin knits itself back in place, perfect, without a blemish.
Samirah tosses her head. She takes a deep breath, and then another.
Horses are creatures of flight; an apocahorse is no different. They're all built to move, and even on the edge of consciousness Samirah follows her own natural instincts. She lunges forward, puts all four good legs underneath her and scrambles to her feet even before her eyes are fully open. She rears and paws at the bright blue sky overhead.
A single tear slides over Dean's finely chiseled right cheekbone.
As Samirah rises, Dean falls.
His head rocks back as his eyes roll white into his head. Dean's hair lightens to a peculiar whitish blonde, and as he falls the blackness of his clothing fades out to white, from his neck and shoulders all the way down to the soles of his boots. Dean lands hard on his side in an awkward sprawl. All of the color has washed out of him; he's as white as the sand around him.
He hears the crack of bone as his right leg shatters.
The sound of Samirah's hoofbeats as she runs down the beach follows him down into the white dark.
Brunch is one of the things that God is definitely glad She created.
She goes down the buffet line, carefully picks out several delicacies she hasn't tried yet. Hasn't tried the lasagna yet. The crab legs look very good today. So do the spareribs, and the garden shrimp pasta. God's also very glad she created the Chef and his staff on this cruise ship, too. Not too shabby, she thinks to herself.
The desert line looks fabulous but there's plenty of time, She thinks. No sense in engaging in gluttony.
She sensed him a few minutes before. The futile effort he made to conceal himself made her laugh fondly. Her boy's learned some tricks out here in the world, but it's not enough, not against her.
He must care a lot about his life here, if he came out of hiding to confront her.
The last person in the line in front of her is a dark haired young man wearing khaki pants and a simple white shirt. He fidgets in place, and that bothers Her a little. Good Grief, the boy's afraid? Of Her? Is that why he left?
"Hello, Gabriel," God says warmly.
He turns, glances up at her face and then ducks his head again. "Uh…Hello, Mother."
"Hello, baby."
"Are you going to smite me?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Well…no."
"You look thin. Are you eating enough? Here. Try the sirloin steak strips. Put some meat on your bones."
Gabriel frowns. "I didn't come here to eat."
"Well, why not?" God turns towards the buffet. "Umm…kiwi, pineapple chunks, and sliced strawberries. That would be good for dessert. You look like you need some vitamin C and some fiber, kiddo."
Gabriel seems surprised he's still in one piece. He scowls as he shakes his head. "I can't believe you're going to let all this end."
"I don't have much to say about how this goes. And this isn't over yet. It's all about free will." God rolls her eyes. "I had this same conversation with Michael and Luci."
Gabriel looks around, suddenly wary. "Are they-"
"No. Michael's gone to Vegas to watch the show. Lucifer went home."
"You're going to stay out here, then? You're not going to stop this?"
"No."
"If you cared, you wouldn't have left in the first place."
God quirks an eyebrow at her wayward son. "That's my line, isn't it?"
Oh. "Uh, are you going to smite me now?"
"No. I'm going to sit at the table over there. I like to watch the ocean while I eat. Get your plate and come join me, will you? We'll talk."
A/N: Not my usual evil cliffie, I know. Next chapters will be posted next week, along with the last installment of Appointment With Samirah.
