Chapter 24: As Above, So Below
Scaling his way down the side of Dean's apartment to make a furtive escape into the night wasn't one of Sam's best moments.
But, as he vaulted over the fence with his bag slung over his shoulders and his phone powered off on purpose, Sam couldn't bring himself to regret it.
The night air slapped him in the face as he raced through side streets. Sam barely paid the chill any mind as he headed towards the nearest subway station. Ideas unfurled before his mind's eye, requiring a level of concentration that noticing the temperature and the nearly empty station didn't.
Dean, unsurprisingly, didn't want him to go to the tunnels without him. While he understood the time crunch, Dean's eyes burned with unarguable resolve as he put his foot down on the idea of Sam going alone. Either he went with him, or no one would go at all.
Sam couldn't let Dean come with him. Not only did he have to avoid unnecessary strain due to the stab wound, but there was Ben and Cas to think of. Cas didn't want any of them to go at all point-blank, and Ben-well, Ben had been sidelined from the conversation due to his tender age-but he'd been very adamant that none of them leave either. He'd gone so far as to cling to Sam's legs, dark eyes fixed beseechingly on him as Dean tried to talk sense into him.
"Call your boyfriend and tell him what's going on, and then go to bed. This isn't your fight, Sammy," Dean had finally said, green aura towering over his shoulders and jaw squared against his protests.
Except it was his fight. All the visions about the case, the way Yellow Eyes had been dragged into the present. Sam was involved to a personal degree that he couldn't turn away from. He'd chosen to see this through when he and Gabe decided to push on when he'd originally been removed from the task force, and Sam was sticking to his guns.
So, he'd waited until Ben fell asleep and Dean and Cas started one of their whispered conversations before sneaking off to Dean's room. The gutter ran right alongside the window and it hadn't taken much for Sam to make his escape. There was a minute of worry that Dean would hear since Dean heard just about everything, but ironically, Cas must've inadvertently held his attention long enough for Sam to get out without being noticed.
Sam's phone burned in his pocket at the thought of Gabe. He hadn't called him as Dean instructed. He would've only tried to dissuade him from going to the tunnels and letting him handle it, and a part of Sam was afraid (and more than a little certain) that Gabe would've succeeded where his brother failed.
So, radio silence. It rubbed Sam the wrong way and made guilt churn in his stomach, but he was certain that the chips had to fall like this.
What few people were traveling gave Sam a wide berth; no doubt warned away by his appearance. He'd caught a glimpse of himself in the glass panels set in the doors when boarding, and he didn't blame any of them for shying away. Sam didn't have either of the knives he'd brought visible-he wasn't that stupid-but his bruises and expression were more than enough.
LU slumbered with a false sense of security. Even at night, there was usually some sort of activity, but it seemed even the grounds knew that something was amiss tonight, as nobody was out beneath the ominous atmosphere that cloaked campus. The familiar buildings appeared skewed and off-center; the streetlights more of a reminder of how dark the shadows were beyond their scope than any real comfort against them.
Sam paused at the unofficial threshold between the city and campus. His gut feeling started to thrum insistently, halting him from stepping off the curb and crossing the street.
Something's not right.
"Yeah, because people are going to die tonight," Sam muttered to himself, but he knew that wasn't it. It was the atmosphere across the street that unsettled him.
The knives hidden in his boots felt like stones as Sam paced on the sidewalk. His instincts were telling him not to go, that it might already be too late if campus felt like this, but his brain wanted him to keep going. He'd only make it worse if he dawdled any longer. That was the whole point of not waiting for anyone and sneaking out.
Gabe popped into his mind unbidden, but this time, Sam didn't shove the thought away. It was a compromise that he was willing to make now that he'd gotten a taste of the danger ahead. He couldn't make much out in actual color due to the night, but Sam was sure that the atmosphere over campus reflected the dark, twisted aura of the killer.
Sam shivered and pulled his phone out. He'd allow himself one text, and then turn it right off no matter how quickly Gabe might reply.
As soon as Sam sent the message, a breeze passed over him, coming from the direction of LU. It rustled the tops of trees and moaned around street corners, raising goosebumps on Sam's skin. That breeze reminded him too much of the exhale the doorway in the basement gave in his dream before the horrible screaming started.
He could be killing someone right now.
He couldn't linger anymore. The eerie breeze solidified Sam's resolve, and with a deep breath, knowing full well he was potentially stepping into a trap, he crossed the street.
The crushing atmosphere enveloped him the second Sam's feet touched the sidewalk. It wasn't exactly like the killer's aura, but the malevolence was undeniable. His impression that the streetlights weren't doing much was proven when Sam approached one and saw the faintest trace of a dark fog skirting the edges of the orange beam. It wasn't very potent, but Sam couldn't brush it off as nonexistent.
No doubt this was what was keeping everyone inside. Even if people couldn't see it like he could, they sensed something was off badly enough that it was best to avoid going out.
Sam continued, striving to keep his posture straight and breathing moderated. His gut wanted to jam him into panic mode (why are we walking towards the danger we don't know we can handle?), but Sam wrestled it into submission.
The closer he got to the history building, the thicker the atmosphere got. Time slowed with every footstep Sam took forward, and his feet began to tickle with the phantom sensation of the malevolence in the air. It felt like bugs skittering over his toes, and Sam had to fight the urge to stomp his feet and draw his knives.
Something's not right.
His inner conscious was starting to sound like a broken record. Sam grimaced and kept going.
The streetlights were the first sign. They dimmed progressively as Sam approached the building, and by the time he reached the steps, they were nothing but weak, flickering specks. The goosebumps felt nearly permanent now, nervous swear trickling down his temple. At this point, his jaw was so tense that he could feel the ache fighting for first place with the bruised side of his face.
Sam walked around to the side, not even attempting the front doors. That just went against all the major points of his training. At this hour, a side door or window was the best point for making a breach.
He found the half-open window in the back end of the building, his mental map of the place informing him that just past the window was where the back halls that led belowground started. The convenience unnerved Sam, so he paused, staring at it with eyes that wanted to look further in rather than linger on the window.
Slow down. This isn't right.
The molasses were creeping back in, slowing and twisting his perception. Sam recognized the feeling from his worst sleepwalking session and cursed his stupid impulsiveness. Why the hell was he hurrying down into a murder basement by himself with just a couple of knives and directions given from visions he didn't even know the source of?
That's more like it. And I'm somehow the impulsive one.
Well, that wasn't his conscious.
Sam tried to follow the flit of green in his peripheral, but it was useless. Not-Dean (whatever version of him had shown up tonight) was impossible to look at straight on. All he had was his brother's voice in his head and the feeling of his aura.
Seeing me takes too much energy that I'm trying to use to keep you from falling into this dummy trap.
"Trap or not, I still have to go in," Sam pointed out, not appreciating Dean's tone. Didn't he realize how important this was?
And why am I talking to him out loud like he's real?
He could see amusement from the flicker of green in response to his aghast thought, but it was temporary in the face of Dean's serious displeasure.
If you go in, you're going to get sucker-punched by this nasty dude's aura like the last time I had to rescue you.
"Then that's what'll have to happen," Sam replied. It wasn't the most ideal situation, but they were down to the wire.
An air of discontent radiated from the green ripple in the corner, but the voice didn't contradict him.
The things I do…brace yourself.
Sam didn't have time to ask just what this version of Dean was up to before the green shimmer passed over him. Dean's familiar aura-if a bit off from what he was now used to interacting with-washed over him, covering him in brotherly affection and chasing away the sinister, foggy feeling Sam hadn't realized was trying to burrow into his mind.
I'll be with you, Dean said, this time speaking directly in his head as opposed to the echoey tone from before. He sounded as young as he looked in Sam's dreams. But I don't think I can stay forever. When I leave, you'll be a sitting duck.
"Noted," Sam muttered, eyeing the window with more trepidation now. He wasn't fond of the idea of being controlled by the killer like the last time, and despite his desperate need to push forward and attempt to stop things from happening tonight, Sam understood the price of doing so might be too high.
But turning back wasn't an option.
Sam took a breath, mentally clinging to Dean's presence, before climbing in.
…
Murky water seeped over the top of Sam's boots, icy enough to provide an edge that kept him on the right side of alert. Somehow, the subbasement had taken on a few inches of water since the dream he'd had featuring Mary, further emphasizing the derelict nature of the room.
The shrine was gone. All that was left was the table and a few dried rings of candle wax on its worn surface. Bloody runes spread across the wall, focused above the gaping doorway that awaited him. They crawled over each other with the most energy Sam had ever seen from Enochian runes, but why, he couldn't say.
Because it's not Enochian. Look more closely.
Sam paused at the insistence in Dean's voice. He'd been providing a running track of (unhelpful) information and whines at his choice to walk into the trap as he'd crept down to the basement, but now he sounded somber; a foreign tone to his boyish voice.
The runes did look a little different. They were sloppy from the speed at which they'd been painted and shimmered with freshness, but they didn't look like proper Enochian. It was as if the writer had turned Enochian on its head and inverted it to produce the runes before him, giving it the manic energy that hurt Sam to look at.
"I don't think the killer wrote this," Sam muttered, confused as his eyes ran over the cryptic message. Even when Cas talked about the killer "bastardizing" Enochian, it'd always remained Enochian at its core; just used in improper ways.
Nope. So, who did?
Sam grimaced. The serial killer having a partner was the last sort of development needed, but it couldn't be denied. There was no way he'd use a different archaic language now. It was likely he could be confronting the partner in the tunnels as opposed to the killer.
Either way, they'd be dangerous and unhinged. Sam drew a knife from his boot and strode forward, ignoring the way Dean's green shimmer flared unhappily.
At first, Sam thought it was just incredibly dark beyond the threshold, but upon closer inspection, he realized with horror that it was an aura making the doorway so dark. Even worse, this wasn't the killer's aura. There were similarities, like the murderous intent and the dark wickedness to it, but it was distinctly different. Sam could feel the age in it; someone much older than college student Max Miller (or whoever the killer was).
Evil, Dean hissed in his head as Sam stretched out his knife to probe the aura.
It flowed over his hand like oil, caressing the knife's edge gleefully. Sam yanked his hand back, sickened by the toxic emotions infused in the aura. Dean was right; this was somehow worse than the killer's aura.
"Fuck. How am I supposed to walk through that?" he asked, shaking the dark remnants of his knife despite knowing he was the only one who could even see it. At times like this with such strong, semi-personified auras, Sam found it hard to believe others couldn't.
See if it's this thick the whole way, or if it's just on the door.
Sam blinked at the helpful suggestion. He'd forgotten Dean's ideas shone the strongest when they were in dangerous situations.
You make it sound like I'm a blockhead the rest of the time!
"No comment," Sam quipped, steeling himself to reach out once more.
This time, he paid attention to the depth of the color with every inch the knife pressed forward. Luckily, it only looked to be a few inches thick, as Sam could just make out the tip shining clean through the oily shroud.
"Gross. Guess I'll have to make a run for it," he sighed, pulling back.
Light first. And compass.
"I know, I know. I still can't believe I'm talking to you out loud," Sam remarked, feeling more than a little crazy as he shrugged his bag off.
I'm fairly real. Dean doesn't have the same inborn talent like you and Ben, but he still dreams.
Sam frowned down at the flashlight in his hand, his brain trying to piece together what Dean was implying (not to mention the third person).
"So…you're not just a figment of imagination or my brain weirdly manifesting itself, are you?"
I'm Dean. But I can only talk to you and help you like this when you're asleep. It's part of the conditions.
"I'm asleep right now? And what conditions?" Sam asked frantically. He felt awake, but if he was sleepwalking, he didn't want to go into the tunnels. Even he wasn't stubborn enough for that.
You're not asleep, but you're not quite awake either, Dean replied cryptically. It's like…zoning out. That's why you can't see me. We've met each other in the middle, so to speak. Dean isn't aware that I'm here with you, but he can sense you're in danger.
"Is he on his way?" Sam asked, not missing the way Dean sidestepped his question about the "conditions". "Wait…does that mean he's asleep right now?"
He's not asleep, but more absent-minded. To him, it'll simply feel as if he's stuck in a daydream, just as this has the quality of a dream for you. Like I said, this isn't his realm. He can only subconsciously reach you.
"I don't have time to process this, and it sounds confusing as hell," Sam admitted, flicking the flashlight on.
A flicker of green flared in the corner of Sam's vision, bright against the slimy walls. Now that he'd mentioned it, Sam recognized the signs that he wasn't completely awake. Walking through the floor levels above his head had felt strange, like walking on a lurching ship's deck. It also explained how distinct the auras and atmospheres were to his eyes, along with the way he'd largely ignored people on his way here. Sam didn't think he'd looked at any of them closely, and he always looked at auras.
There'll be time later if you make it out of this alive. We can always turn back.
"Stop trying to convince me to turn back," Sam snapped, zipping his backpack up. "Since when have you ever backed away from a confrontation when lives are on the line?"
I prioritize your life, Dean snapped back, the green flicker flaring angrily over the abandoned shrine. You're my highest priority, the first person I protected at my own expense; hell, even at other's expenses. Do you think I'm the hero of Lawrence John trained me to be? Do you think you are?
Sam swung the beam of the flashlight towards the doorway. The white light hit the aura and turned grayish as it passed through the shroud, dissipating about a foot into the tunnel.
"Neither of us is exactly what John trained us to be. We'll never be what he wanted us to be," Sam admitted. The Dean in his head was different from Dean in critical ways, but he still spoke truth. Dean had strayed from the life laid out for him by John in enough notable ways that he'd never be the warrior John wanted. Ben and Lisa, Crowley, even Cas.
Sam wasn't exempt either. He'd run away, forcibly denying everything he'd learned as much as he could, only to embrace it again for the case. Sam didn't want to be the hero, but he was the one having the visions and he was the one that had the skills and training (however complicated his view on it was) to do something about it.
"But who else would you have down here? Ben has visions like me, but he's just a child," Sam continued, knowing Dean agreed when the flicker dimmed and flitted further out of sight.
It's Gabriel's job to follow this trail, not you.
"No. Maybe it's his job, but I can't put that on him. I can't put him in danger," Sam argued, struggling to verbalize just how wrong it felt for Gabe to be down here. It was bad enough he'd texted him.
You care about him too much. At least wait until he gets here.
"Shut up."
Sam strode forward, bracing himself for the punch to the throat he was no doubt about to take as he brandished his flashlight and knife.
It was somehow worse than he could've imagined. Something primal rose in Sam's mind, thrashing about like prey in a predator's locked jaw as the darkness washed over him. His skin crawled like mad, trying to cringe away from the slimy feel of it. For a moment, Sam was half-tempted to call the whole thing off, but his resolve was stronger than his hesitance, and his feet carried him the two steps necessary to pass completely through the shroud.
"That was fucking vile," Sam gagged, shuddering hard enough for the beam of light to bounce around the wet, stony walls that pressed in on him.
I tried to warn you, Dean said scathingly, but Sam could hear the disgust in his voice. Let's hope you don't run into whoever that belongs to.
"I don't think I'll get that lucky," Sam said, fingering the grip of his knife as he recalled bits and pieces of his vision.
He didn't have much solid in his head beside the route he needed to take, but Sam recalled the feeling that he was going to run into someone. Who that someone was hadn't been revealed to him, but Sam knew he wasn't going to be alone in these tunnels.
A sweet, earthy scent rose to greet him as he moved deeper into the tunnel. Above his head (which wasn't very far; the ceiling was only a few inches away), tree roots burst through the hard-packed dirt. Stone gave way to wooden beams after a hundred feet or so; the floor taking a distinctly upward turn that put an end to the standing water that soaked Sam's feet.
Dean remained quiet as Sam walked, but he hadn't left him. The green shimmer was muted, but always ahead of him, darting around blind curves and corners to scout out what could be lying in wait.
Despite the nervous pressure keeping him high strung, Sam managed an amused snort. His aura radar range was fairly wide, and the subconscious teenage manifestation of his older brother still felt the need to be overprotective.
Sam checked the compass when they reached a T-junction. So far, he'd been going roughly south, and his options were east and west.
He took the eastward path after checking his bearings, not giving it much thought besides the fact that it was simply the direction he had to go.
Do you know where you're going?
"Not specifically, but I'm fairly sure it's downtown," Sam replied, feeling the need to whisper. Like a church, the tunnels just radiated an air of solemn silence.
So, the LPD headquarters then, Dean sneered. Only place that makes sense in that area.
"It could also be the morgue. Or Town Hall. Who knows what this guy has planned," Sam added, but deep down, he was sure Dean was right. The LPD had a sprawling basement no one knew the true lengths of and striking at it from below while they were still reeling from the losses they'd incurred would simply be too tempting for the killer (or his partner) to pass up.
What did you see in your vision?
"You can't pick it out from my brain?"
No? I'm not Ben, Dean said exasperatedly, green flicker doubling back and disappearing once again past Sam's peripheral. I may be in your head, but I can't do anything while you're this awake.
"I'm sorry I'm not passed out to make things easier for you."
Bitch.
"Jerk," Sam finished traditionally before throwing pointing the flashlight upward. He didn't think he was imagining the new distance between him and the ceiling, along with the narrowing of the walls.
"I saw some routes through the tunnels. I couldn't tell you the directions or pinpoint every exact location, but…I saw them regardless. The floor changed from stone to dirt a lot while I was running. And there were marks on the wall…"
Sam trailed off, casting the light to the corner of the wall and squinting at its mark-free surface.
"I think I put some up. But I saw someone else's too," he said slowly, wondering if this meant he should start marking the walls. But why would he do that if he knew where he was going?
Probably for other's benefit. Dean doesn't know his way around here, and I am on the way.
"It's weird when you talk about yourself like that," Sam said, pointing his knife at the wall and scratching an arrow into the dirt surface.
How else am I going to talk about myself? I am me, after all, even if I'm not aware that this version of myself exists. Semi-third person is the best compromise.
"Fair point. I think."
They lapsed into a silence punctuated only by the squeaks of rats beyond the light and the occasional drip of water. Sam got the sense that Dean was focusing on shielding him from the invasive feeling from earlier, and the act was taxing. The further he went on, the less Sam saw and heard of his brother.
"What do you know then?" Sam asked when he paused at another junction and the flicker reappeared. This time, the choice was between a tunnel that climbed upward and one that descended, and while Sam knew he had to go down deeper (not comforting at all), he still wanted to take the opportunity to get his bearings and mark an arrow.
I know plenty, Dean huffed, drifting between the two tunnels. At this point, the green was pale enough that when he crossed through the light, he disappeared. For instance, I can answer those burning questions on your mind about your precious Gabriel. And Cas.
Dean managed to switch from acerbic disdain when saying "Gabriel" to barely restrained fondness in Cas' name, which shouldn't have surprised Sam as much as it did. It seemed this version of Dean didn't mind showing his affections for a particular Enochian expert.
They're alike in that they both instinctively know Enochian and have similar beginnings. You already know Cas is adopted, which is the only reason I'm even confirming this.
Sam did know. The image of Cas being left in a church like Gabe was a disturbing one but strangely fit the stoic man. Sometimes, he got the impression Cas was lost in ways that couldn't be immediately abated.
Cas has been secretive about how he knows Enochian, but you'd be too. He thinks he's the only one that knows it. The little healing trick he did with you is part of it.
"Is he aware the two are connected? And how far can he heal someone?" Sam asked as he started down the descending tunnel. He couldn't help being curious; it was an ability far removed from what Gabe had told him of it.
To a degree. He uses it very little and can't heal much. He's strictly academic about the language, Dean said fondly before his tone darkened. It's a dangerous language to know.
Sam sensed a story behind that, but then the floor leveled out and came to a dead-end and Dean faded back.
Did Cas have the same troubles with mysterious people hounding him about Enochian? Sam hadn't gotten any sort of indication that he had from either his aura or his actions-it was public knowledge he studied the language after all-and Dean had said he thought he was the odd man out. Gabe met the mysterious Balthazar, but it seemed Cas managed to slip under the radar.
He shoved aside his ponderings to focus on the dead end. At first glance, it looked as if the wooden planks boarding it up hadn't been tampered with in years, but closer inspection revealed that the nails on one side had been carefully pried away from the wall. Sam reached for it with a sleeve-covered hand(if he could avoid leaving behind fingerprints, all the better), and the whole thing swung back like an odd door.
"Ugh. Sewage," Sam groaned, tugging his collar up over his nose as the familiar stench slapped him in the face along with the sound of running water.
The door opened up perpendicular into a small, metal paneled alcove, forcing Sam to stoop just so he could scrape through. To his left stood the first proper door he'd seen since entering the underground. Faded signs that read Lawrence Sewage System: No Unauthorized Access and Caution clung to the rusted metal. Judging by how disused it looked, Sam didn't think anyone in the sewage department even remembered this door existed.
Sam opened the door, glancing behind him into the alcove. The boarded-up section he'd stepped through was hardly noticeable, expertly disguised by the metal panels. Someone had put effort into that.
"Dean? You still with me?" Sam asked tentatively, stepping out onto a tiny grated platform slightly elevated above the fast rushing stretch of water below. He could sense Dean's aura clinging firmly to him like a second skin, but it felt thin in some places.
Still with you. You're getting closer. It's getting darker, Dean said, only a trace of exhaustion in his otherwise firm voice.
Sam swallowed. Dean wasn't referring to the tunnel. Muted lights placed intermittently along the wall shone behind protective, grilled boxes; the first source of light not from his flashlight in his entire trek so far.
He turned his flashlight off and descended the three steps to start down the narrow concrete walkway, following the pipes embedded into the wall and running above him.
"How far do you think I've walked?"
Unease began to creep in, playing tricks with every shadow Sam jerked his head towards. Sam wasn't scared (not yet at least; he'd reserve that feeling for something a bit stronger than flickering shadows), Dean's strange pseudo-company brought comfort. He was now painfully aware of how alone he was down here, and how dangerous that could be.
One of John's teachings returned to him unbidden. It was a rule he'd mostly reiterated ad nauseam to Dean, but Sam had gotten his fair share too.
There will be times when you're on your own and have to defend yourself. That's just life, and I can't do anything about that. But no matter what happens, you always stick with your brother. We help others, but above all, help each other and take care of each other first.
Sam halted, the knife that had been switching between hands coming to rest in his left. Not even John would approve of him being down here, and while Sam never wanted his approval, it added an uncomfortable perspective to his current position. Who would really approve of him being down here?
The killer, Dean said quietly, voice barely a whisper but quickly gaining strength. You've walked maybe a couple of miles. I think some looped around on themselves, but you're south of LU now.
"And roughly in the borders of downtown," Sam said, relieved beyond measure when he saw the green flicker floating in the middle of the tunnel.
You're not the only one here anymore.
Sam's heart dropped into an icy pit alongside his stomach, but Dean clarified before he could start scrutinizing the shadows.
I think it's someone good, not bad since they're behind us. But I can't sense anything beyond that, he said, frustrated. I won't be of use much longer.
"Then I guess I've got to pick up the pace," Sam replied, moving as quickly as he dared. The thought that Gabe was somewhere down here wasn't wholly reassuring; not if Gabe ran into danger before he did.
The sewage tunnel began to curve, winding its way on a slight downward slope. Sam followed it until it intersected with a larger run-off tunnel. On the other side was a door similar to the one he'd come through, only slightly less rusted.
"There's no way I'm walking through that muck," Sam hissed, looking around wildly for some other way.
Walkway further down.
Sam grunted, turning right and running down the larger tunnel a bit before coming across what Dean had been referring to. Here, the ceiling was vaulted and arched, leaving room for a narrow walkway that linked the two sides. It didn't look as if it'd been maintained in a long time, but it was the best option he had.
"You still with me?" Sam asked as he doubled back on the other side and skidded to a stop in front of the door.
Still with you.
The same aura from before clung to the door handle, whispering out from the cracks in thin, greasy tendrils that revolted Sam. But there was just no time left, and he'd already come this far.
Sam turned his flashlight back on, tightened the grip on his knife, and took a breath. Now or never.
Just as his hand wrapped around the handle (oil smeared on his palm), Sam heard Dean's voice rise sharply in alarm.
Wait, Sammy-!
But it was too late. The door opened and Sam was already gone.
…
"You shouldn't have left."
Sam stood in Lisa's backyard. However, there was no fence or house behind him; just the familiar patch of lawn, the little playground set he and Dean had spent so much time building, and his nephew sitting on the stump of a tree cut down long before his birth.
"You're asleep now. Daddy's gone to get you, but you're already asleep," Ben said, biting his lip. He wore the clothes Sam had last seen him in, with the notable exception of his feet. They were bare and muddied up to his calves as if he'd trekked through a thousand puddles before ending up on the stump. "Why did you leave?"
"I had to. You know I had to," Sam said, confused and wondering what happened to the tunnels. What had that door led to? How did Ben factor in?
Ben shook his head. His aura was nothing but a suggestion against the burning blue-white sky that surrounded their little square of land, his eyes so black that he looked like nobody else but his mother as he spoke.
"You didn't have to go alone. Now the monster's going to eat you."
A cold wind blew over them, hard enough to ruffle Ben's hair and push Sam into taking staggering steps against it. It stank of death and carried the chill rustle of dead leaves.
"I wish I could help," Ben shivered, already sounding far away, like a fading voice at the end of a bad phone line. "I wish-but I don't know how. Don't go!"
"I'm not," Sam said, even as cold hooks sunk into his stomach and tried to drag him back.
How blind he'd been, to think he could go up against something like this alone. Sam was just a spec of self-righteousness against the towering foe the monster presented.
Beneath Sam's feet, the grass began to curl and wither. It spread outward like rot, but Ben was fearless, already leaping off the stump and reaching for his hands.
"No, Ben, it's ok. I'll be ok, stay there!" Sam pleaded. He could already feel himself unraveling from this odd halfway point, pulled forcibly back to his body. Back to reality; back to danger.
"Just a little longer, until Daddy reaches you! I can do this!" Ben shouted, tiny hands clamping around his wrist.
Ben's hands burned like fire, a direct contrast to the cold hate trying to swallow him up. For a moment, Sam was neatly split; half dark and light, everything so opposite that it shocked him into staying together without conscious thought. Ben reminded him of the importance of fighting; of being resilient and unwavering.
Then the hate surged, and Sam found himself caught in a tug and war he knew Ben couldn't win. This was Ben's territory, but the cold was old and deep, and it wanted him to come right now before it really made him hurt.
"You have to let me go. Let me go, Ben!" he yelled, trying to squirm out of Ben's iron grasp. Sam didn't know what could happen if the hate touched Ben through him; if it was even possible for the hate to grasp Ben from here, but he couldn't risk it.
Around them, the ground began to fall away in ashen chunks. There wasn't much time left, and Sam knew it.
"Ben, listen to me. I don't want the monster to get you either. You have to let me go."
It was a hard lesson for a child to learn, but Ben had always been smart for his age. In a fraction of a second, Sam saw understanding fill his eyes, heavier than the weight of trying to be his anchor.
His small hands slipped, sliding to clamp around his fingers. The fire faded, Ben's face screwing up with tears. Sam wanted to comfort him, but all he could manage was a brief squeeze of Ben's fingers before they finally parted.
The cold consumed him, and Sam went willingly. Better him than Ben.
…
Water dripped onto his head, soaking straight through to Sam's scalp. He stood in an intersection that looked vaguely familiar, but it took him a long, painful moment and another sign on the wall to pinpoint why.
LPD personnel only beyond this point. No Trespassing.
"Fuck."
Sam took a step back, looking around wildly as his brain began to wake up. If the mostly working lights were any indication, he was probably on the edge of where the LPD's basement fell into legendary ramblings.
Behind him, the hall was dark and sloped down into inky darkness. Ahead, the lights shone stronger, stretching to end at a set of double doors that Sam was sure led out of this maze. Left and right were nearly identical in terms of neglect and grime.
Where do I go? And why did I black out just to wake up here?
Sam couldn't sense Dean. Just as he'd warned, he was gone, leaving him with the sensation of losing his coat in the middle of a blizzard.
So no brother, and no intuitive direction from his visions. Just a knife in one hand and a dark film coating the air…
Sam frowned, looking more closely. The faint aura looked like soot in the air, but it was traceable. He couldn't tell if it belonged to the killer or the partner-it was too deteriorated-but it definitely belonged to one of them, and either one would do.
Left.
Following the trail didn't last for nearly as long as Sam anticipated. He made a few turns, backtracking only once when he overshot the trail before coming to a dead end. However, there was no door awaiting him in this one.
Sam dimly registered that there was proper Enochian over the display this time, but his eyes were more interested in the array of pictures sitting on the table. The aura collected around the table in strong, thick tendrils, slinking around the various frames and lit candles like furtive snakes.
They were all of him.
He couldn't sense anyone coming, which was the only reason Sam chose to continue forward instead of bolting. That, and he had no idea exactly how he'd gotten here and didn't want to chance going up through the LPD headquarters.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's someone that just looks like me?
No dice. The pictures were accurate to what Sam remembered of being photographed in his life. There were two of him as an infant with the rest of his family and then a large gap between Mary dying and his later elementary years. Those were the motel and highway years. The school photos started around 4th or 5th grade and climbed up from there. There he was with the middle school buzz cut, then growing his hair out in high school…
Sam gulped at the last one. It was an employee picture from the Roadhouse from New Year's; just a few months ago. The charred frame and cracked glass didn't lie. It'd been pulled straight from the rubble.
Fire alarms started with an abrupt wail; startling Sam worse than he wanted to admit from his stunned stupor. None rang where he was, but he could hear them far off and from above, muted by the concrete and pipes.
A real fire, or a diversion?
He took one last glance at the shrine (oh shit he's after me now) before making his way back. Panicking now would be pointless, but Sam could feel his muscles tighten regardless, nerves high strung by the fire alarm.
He's after me now.
Sam tried not to pick speed over caution, but the choice was taken out of his hands when the oily, vile aura from earlier brushed against his radar, matching the faint echo of deliberate footsteps.
The knife in Sam's hand quivered as he froze, the perfect picture of stillness. It wasn't the killer's aura; this was the partner, and they were walking towards him.
"Shit," he mouthed, not even daring to whisper the swear as he began to backtrack. It wasn't a coincidence that the person was coming from the direction he'd started from.
A whistle drifted toward him, the tune low and slow. It set Sam's teeth on edge, but it provided a better auditory point of reference than the footsteps. Something about the gait was uncannily familiar.
They're stalking me like I'm prey, Sam thought with cold realization as he turned another corner.
It might've just been the footsteps following him, but above, Sam swore he heard the rhythmic thump of people running. What was going on up there? Demented or not, Sam didn't think the killer would be brazen enough to be up there.
Either way, no help would come from that direction. Sam was sure that by this point, Gabe had left the LPD, spurred by his text. Even if he was upstairs, there was no way for him to know he was down here.
Another hall, another blindly taken turn. Sam thought he'd come through here before, but this time, there was something on the wall.
Pain lanced through Sam's head at the sight of the mark, cutting through the panic now firmly settled in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't seen the mark in ages, but the double image overlaying itself before him confirmed that this was what he'd seen in his vision.
An oval with a dot in the middle, bisected by a slash down the middle that dripped blood so fresh it was still red. The shape had only helped to solidify the man's moniker back in the day; the wide-eyed, singular gaze boring into Sam's soul.
It can't be.
"Saaaaaam. I know you're somewhere in here."
The sing-song voice had followed Sam from his nightmares, coming to cruel reality to stalk him in this purgatory landscape he'd raced towards like an idiot. Everything slid into place with a clear finality that only ever came when Sam was already in the frying pan and tumbling into the fire.
Yellow Eyes.
This time, Sam didn't even consider caution. His feet moved for him; mind blank as he ran.
The steps picked up speed to match Sam's pace, and a growl escaped Yellow Eye's (because it really was him) throat, half-feral as he realized where he was going.
"Do you really want to go so quickly, Sam? Don't you want to see me face to face?"
Sam wasn't a fan of the idea at the moment. He'd always wanted to get Yellow Eyes. Maybe not as badly as John or Dean, who lived with the sharp acid want for revenge for Mary, but the desire never left him. Catching him was the dream but killing him and being done with it worked too on the days Sam felt as close as he thought he'd ever get to murder.
But this wasn't revenge. This was him being chased by his first predator, and Sam's only thoughts were of escape.
I need to get out. This isn't how it was supposed to go at all.
Sam's head exploded in a fiery conflagration of pain just as the double doors he'd seen earlier came into view. He was half-aware of gasping, shoulder slamming into the wall as he clutched his head with his free hand, but none of that registered properly. Sam couldn't see; blinded by the red-white poker stirring his brains around.
"Enough of that. You run like your mother did."
A brief flare of anger overcame the pain in Sam's head at Yellow Eye's breathless, careless words, but it wasn't enough to help him regain his balance. Sam slumped against his will; balance lost as he collapsed to the ground.
No, no, no, get up-
The hate wouldn't let him though. As the pain ebbed, the cold crept in, greasy and slick. It weighed him down and kept Sam from doing much more than shift his numb, white-knuckled grip on his knife.
"You've grown up. The last time I saw you this close, you were barely as long as my forearm. Strange, how people grow so quickly to reach their prime. I like taking people in their prime."
Now the hate wasn't just in his head. The aura descended over Sam like a wave, chilling him to the bone as the steps approached.
"But you're not my type. No, not at all. You see Sam, we have a…different history."
Sam could see his feet. His vision blurred (still sensitive, the lights burned), but he could make out the muck clinging to the soles and scuffed leather. Boots; the heavy kind practical people wore. They were partially obscured by the black aura flowing off of their owner.
"Can you sense me like your mother did? She said I was crude and black like oil. She said I tainted in the air. It pleased me, that someone could physically see my spirit in all its glory."
Mom could see this?
"That's surprise on your face. Yes, Mary could see, just like you can. What a delight, that you have her talent. I suspected, but it's always good to have confirmation."
The boots shuffled, making room for Yellow Eyes to squat down. Sam still couldn't move well, which he used as an excuse to keep his eyes fixed firmly on his toes. The malevolent aura suffocated him, seeping into his pores.
"I almost regret killing her the way I did, but it was necessary. You'll learn in time. There's so much you don't know. It's why I won't kill you yet. I'd rather you know everything so that reaping you will be all the sweeter."
Sam cringed back from the hand that grasped his face, but Yellow Eyes dug his fingers in and there was no refuge behind him. He had a glove on, leather just like his boots. It squeaked as Yellow Eyes pulled his face up.
He'd seen the police sketch the single witness had produced ages ago. It'd been generic; nothing more than a gesture of the cruel, sharp face burning itself into Sam's mind. They'd only recalled the eyes the clearest, and Sam couldn't fault them for it at all as hellfire personified pierced his gaze.
"Remember me, Sam," Yellow Eyes whispered, grip sending spasms of pain through his already bruised face. "Remember this face and remember that this isn't mercy. This is just me prolonging the game."
Sam grunted. He wanted to say something, but nothing coherent, much less formable, came to mind. All he could do was glare (IhateyouIhateyou-), and then hiss as pain began to course through his head again.
"No time left. My new protégé will be wrapping up by now," Yellow Eyes said almost mournfully, but Sam didn't think he was capable of that sort of emotion. "And I sense people coming for you. What a treasure, that you have such exquisite characters around you. I think you'll provide nearly as much fun as your mother!"
Yellow Eyes bared his teeth, his laugh a raspy, rumbling noise that curled in Sam's ears.
"Time to go. Say goodnight, Sam, but also hello. I think your dreams will be enlightening," he said, squeezing his face and shoving him back.
Sam watched his mouth move with hazy eyes, head smacking against the wall. However, whatever Yellow Eyes said was lost to the distortion of noise; Sam's breathing too loud and the fire alarms too soft.
The last thing Sam was aware of before everything turned into sulfur was Yellow Eye's hand on his, seizing his knife and leaving him empty-handed.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
So, this just hit 200k. What a ride! I've been waiting for this chapter since I finished Chromaticity, so I wrote this fairly quickly considering my now slowish updating speed. As one killer's plotline begins to careen towards a conclusion, another killer is only getting started. Next chapter will be Gabe's POV, and you guessed it, he's going to be big mad!
(Also this is probably going to be a trilogy since uhhhh 200k is a lot and I'm not even close to being done. I drop this news here so you can waterboard me in the comments, and I'll explain more in the next update?)