Title: Ut Victor Vado Spoilum
Author: JenF
Part 4 of 4
Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchester family, their property, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine.
Author's Note: This was originally written in 2010 as part of the SN Virtual Season (4) over on Ungen (no longer in existence that I can find, please correct me if I'm wrong).
Sam swallowed and craned his neck forward as Sarah swung her car into the driveway of the Whittakers' residence. The house was ominously dark at the front and Sam could feel himself edging off the passenger seat before his companion had even switched off the engine. Flinging the door open, he threw himself out of the car and was on the front porch before the car door had swung shut behind him.
Grasping the ornate door handle, he yanked hard. The door remained steadfastly closed and Sam cursed under his breath. He was vaguely aware of Sarah's presence behind him but as he rattled the door on its hinges he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew in his bones that Dean was inside and in trouble – there could be no other explanation for the unanswered calls.
He stepped back from the door and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Sarah hovered anxiously to one side, eyeing the lock pick set he drew out.
"Sam?" she queried.
"It's locked," he answered, shortly. "Dean's in there. I have to help him."
Sarah nodded and backed off as Sam deftly inserted the fine metal rods into the lock of the grand door. Twisting his wrist deftly he leant back, expecting the door to swing gently open. Frowning when that didn't happen, Sam tried again to no avail.
Biting back a cry of frustration, he stood back off the front step and beat his fist against the solid wooden obstacle keeping him from his brother.
"It's sealed," he muttered, as if saying it would release the door from its supernatural bindings. Sarah's face paled as she cast her eyes over the front of the property.
"What about the windows?" she suggested, shrugging helplessly but needing to feel useful.
Sam shook his head though and waved a hand in their general direction. "Probably sealed too," he mused and then backed up, launching a heavily booted foot at the door's lower panels in frustration.
He stood back again, running a hand through his hair, screwing his eyes closed in thought. Then he slapped his hand to his forehead in a gesture that, any other time, would have been perfect comic timing as he exclaimed, "Of course! How could I be so stupid?"
Striding back down the driveway, long legs carrying him past Sarah's car, he threw open the trunk of the Impala, rummaging around until his fingers found their target. He pulled out a worn shotgun and, quickly checking the shells were loaded with salt, he made his way back to the porch.
Firing from the hip, he was barely back up the steps before the salt had broken through whatever enchantment was holding the door fast, shredding the oak panel. One more shot and Sam was satisfied the hole was large enough to clamber through.
Folding himself virtually in half, he squinted through the gap in the wood. He couldn't see Dean or Portia, although that offered him little comfort. Grasping the shotgun firmly in his hand, he twisted his head back to Sarah.
"Stay here," he commanded.
Sarah snorted and shook her head. "No way," she declared. "I've seen what you do, remember? You might need me. Don't think you're going to shut me out. Not after everything I've been through recently."
Sam raised his eyes heavenward briefly before muttering "Fine, but stay behind me."
Sarah smiled as she watched Sam squeeze through the gap he'd created before following him.
Once inside the house, Sam took a couple of seconds to survey his surroundings. Sarah had clearly been a visitor in the past and she eased her way past Sam, who cast an exasperated look at her as he gently grasped her arm.
"What did I say?" he reminded her, scanning the array of closed doors leading off the grand entrance hall they found themselves in. She shrugged apologetically before indicating the door directly in front of them.
"That's the living room," she offered.
"And that's where Dean is," Sam determined as the sound of a loud crash echoed through the hallway.
Not stopping to see whether Sarah was following him, Sam leapt across the gap between himself and the doorway. Grasping the handle firmly, he gave a hefty yank, even though he knew it was pointless. The door was as firmly sealed as the main entrance had been.
"Crap," he muttered, trying to ignore the sound of crashing bodies and the occasional squeak he assumed emanated from Portia. He toyed with the shotgun he still held loosely at his side, torn between getting to Dean as quickly as possible and not wanting to inadvertently injure anyone on the other side.
His decision was made for him, though, as a thud reverberated through the house, accompanied by a blood chilling cry of pain Sam would have recognized as his brother's anywhere. If Sam had thought that sound was frightening, however, it was nothing compared to the resounding silence that followed.
Throwing caution to the wind, the younger Winchester hefted the shotgun into position and let loose with the salt rounds, barely letting a shout of warning pass his lips before the door disintegrated into a vague semblance of pick-up-sticks.
Slipping effortlessly through the gaping hole, not worrying whether Sarah was behind him or not, Sam scanned the room with inbred skill. Dean was lying on the floor, clearly not having moved for several seconds at least. A quick visual assessment from Sam reassured him that his older brother was not in any immediate, life threatening danger, although Sam had no doubt he was in a world of pain right now. His wound had clearly reopened and was bleeding freely and Dean's eyes were at half mast, bruises slowly forming on his face and knuckles. Sam wasn't even sure if his presence had been noticed.
Stifling the instinct to immediately make his way over to his brother's fallen form, Sam cast his eyes over the rest of the room. Evidence of the struggle, if any were needed, was easy to find. The room was in complete disarray, furniture out of place, vases on the floor, coffee table lying on its side.
But the most telling sign was the sight of Portia, huddled in the far corner of the room, Ovidius looming over her with a cold grin on his face. Sarah, peering cautiously round the door jamb, couldn't help but let a small gasp escape her lips. Portia hadn't been the best of friends recently, but not even she deserved this!
Sam, spurred into action by Sarah's unintentional outburst, turned his full attention to the scene playing out in the corner. Portia's normally impeccable hair and make-up were in a mess, mascara running down her face, following the trail of her panicked tears. Her hands were clasped together above her head in a vain attempt to keep herself safe from the impending attack.
And there, Sam realized, clasped in her left hand, was what Ovidius was after.
Her fingers were wrapped around a hair comb so tightly her knuckles were actually turning white.
Sam spared the time to take one last look at Dean, who had managed to pull himself up onto his knees and wave feebly in Portia's direction. It was all Sam needed.
"Your hairclip!" he shouted at the terrified girl. "Give him the clip!"
But his words were lost on the woman. Ovidius, on the other hand, turned sinisterly to the newcomers. He cast a discerning look at Sarah, then at Sam. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the shotgun in Sam's hand and raised his eyes briefly to regard the younger Winchester.
Obviously deciding he was no threat, Ovidius swiveled back to Portia, who was still clutching the jewelry tightly, as though her life depended on it. Ignoring the ominous click of the shotgun as Sam primed it for a final round, the Roman warrior reached an arm out to the shaking woman and grasped her wrist tightly, pulling her round in front of him, blocking any clear shot Sam might have gotten off.
Portia, still not having the sense to release her grip on the hair comb, whimpered in pain and fear. Lowering the shotgun in disgust, Sam looked to Dean.
The older Winchester had managed to regain a little of his equilibrium and was securely on his knees, although Sam couldn't help but notice he hadn't moved away from the wall yet. He was transfixed on Portia and Ovidius and his lips were moving in a constant mantra Sam couldn't quite hear.
Suddenly Dean found his voice and he managed to get out a hoarse, "The clip. Give him the clip. Give him the clip."
Portia didn't hear, or if she did, she didn't understand what the hunters were trying to tell her. Ovidius, on the other hand, gave the boys a look of triumph as he ripped the jewelry from her hand, tearing the skin on her fingers at the same time, eliciting another scream of pain from the wretched woman.
Sam tightened his fingers on the shotgun, determined to put an end to Ovidius, at least long enough to get Portia away from him, when, with a speed and cruelty that left both Winchesters and Sarah stunned, the Roman slipped his hand from Portia's wrist to her throat and with a smooth twist, snapped her neck like a twig. The woman slumped down to the plush carpeted floor, eyes frozen open in terror, mouth ready to scream but silenced in death.
The beer in front of Dean was crisp and cold, beads of condensation trickling down the sides of the frosted glass, yet it was untouched. Dean's eyes were on the beverage, but unfocussed and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
Lifting his own beer to his lips, Sam took a long sip and eyed his brother warily. He knew the look on Dean's face, he'd seen it often enough over the years. It usually meant Dean was wallowing in self-recrimination. Sighing, knowing the topic couldn't be avoided for long, Sam set his beer down on the table a little harder than necessary, jolting Dean out of his reverie.
"It wasn't your fault, you know," he told Dean.
There was no reaction from the older hunter for some minutes and Sam was just beginning to wonder if he'd even heard him when Dean lifted his head and turned bleary eyes on Sam.
"I should've stopped him," he confessed softly. "I was in the room. I was with her. I was meant to save her!" Dean's voice trailed away into nothing and his hands slipped over the beer in front of him. "I should've saved her," he repeated quietly.
"It wasn't your fault, Dean," Sam repeated.
"Whose fault was it then?" Dean snapped, head shooting up to glare at Sam. "We do this stuff all the time, Sam. And yet I couldn't save one girl."
"You didn't know about the jewelry. Hell, I didn't know until Sarah told me. You can't blame yourself for this. I hate to say it, Dean, but Portia kinda brought this on herself."
"I should've seen it coming though, Sam. I should've fought harder, held on to my gun. Something!"
"Dean, Ovidius was stronger and faster than either of us realized. There was nothing – nothing – you could have done. He was determined to kill Portia; I saw it in his face. Portia was greedy and vain and in the end she was just unlucky."
Dean's shoulders slumped lower, a sign Sam recognized as the beginning of acceptance.
"Doesn't mean she deserved to die," he mumbled and took a long swig of his beer, wiping the froth from his face with the back of his sleeve. "Most of the people we meet are stupid and greedy and they don't die. I was there, Sam. And I couldn't stop him."
Sam sighed and downed the rest of his beer. Realizing this was going to take some time, time he didn't really believe they had, he decided the only way forward was to bludgeon through his brother's feelings and hope that taking action would snap him out of his melancholy.
"If you want to blame someone," he argued, "blame Portia. After all she took the comb in the first place. Which, by the way," he continued, overriding any attempt to interrupt Dean made, "is now missing again. You still have the other items?"
Dean rummaged in his pocket and nodded, a little awed by Sam's tirade.
"Okay," Sam nodded in satisfaction. "It's my bet Ovidius is going to come after those pieces next. Which means we need to destroy them now."
Dean sat back and slowly chewed on his lower lip. He knew that Sam was right but he couldn't quite shake the guilt he was feeling just yet. "Won't get rid of Ovi though," he commented. "If we do this, we'll never find him or the other bit of jewelry. And if we can't find him, we can't get rid of him."
Sam huffed at his brother's deliberate obstructiveness. "What do you suggest then?" he asked.
Dean pondered for a few minutes then sat forward, elbows on the table.
"We need to bring Ovi out of the shadows," he declared. "Hang on to the other bits, he'll come for them, we ambush him, get the other comb, sling it on a fire and we're done."
He sat back with an air of satisfaction and downed what was left of the beer.
"Oh. Yeah. That's simple," agreed Sam with raised eyebrows. "How are we going to lure him out?"
"If we smelt one piece, he'll come," Dean reassured his brother, ignoring the doubt he felt himself. "All we need is a kiln in throwing distance." He stopped and thought about what he'd just said. "Does Sarah have one?"
"That's a really bad idea, Dean," Sam argued.
"I never said it was a good idea, Sam," Dean retorted. "Does she have a kiln or not?"
"No," Sam shook his head, "but there's a pottery studio just down from her place. The owners are pretty lax when it comes to security. We shouldn't have a problem getting in."
"Great!" Dean exclaimed, sliding his now empty glass into the center of the table they were sitting at and pushing himself up out of his seat. "C'mon then. Time's a-wasting."
Sam studied Dean carefully, noting the slight waver in his brother's stance and the clouded look in his eyes. "You're kidding, right?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice. Dean's confused brow didn't pacify Sam though. "You're hurt and your head's not really in the right place at the moment," he clarified.
Dean snorted in response. "It's a ghost, Sammy," he scoffed. "I could gank one of them in my sleep."
"Where's the plan in all of this?" Sam asked, hoping to make Dean see sense but knowing once Dean's mind was set on something there was nothing he could do to change it.
"Sam," Dean's long suffering sigh was overly dramatic but effective. "I thought we'd just been through this." He stopped and rested one hand nonchalantly on the table. "Look, Sam. I get it. You're worried about me but I'm fine. Honestly. Yeah, I'm a bit…" he trailed off, searching for the right words and failing while Sam waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt. "But I'm okay," he finally concluded. "Portia didn't deserve what she got and it's up to us to make sure it doesn't happen to someone else."
"So," Sam ventured quietly, "it's revenge you're after?"
Dean shrugged. "Whatever works," and he turned away from his brother and made his way through the crowd to the exit.
By the time Dean pulled the Impala smoothly into a parking bay by the pottery studio Sam had alluded to, the hour hand was comfortably past one in the morning. The surrounding neighborhood was still and silent, one or two cars passed them by but none stopped. Nobody was around to see two silhouettes crouching at the rear entrance to the workshop, deftly gaining entrance via illicit means.
Unsurprisingly, considering the information Sarah had been able to give them regarding the owner, the studio was not alarmed. As Sam swung the door open, he winced at the unoiled creak of the hinges and stepped back to allow Dean to pass him. The older brother stepped confidently over the threshold, snaking an arm out to the side, fingers searching for the light switch. Finding it in seconds, he flicked it up, bathing the workshop in a fluorescent light.
"Dean!" Sam hissed, unable to believe what his brother had done.
Dean simply turned to his sibling and, with raised eyebrows, shrugged one shoulder. "What?" he asked, innocently.
"The lights?!"
"Chill, dude. No one's gonna see that from the street." Dean turned and gave Sam a cocksure grin before sauntering into the premises.
To an outsider, it might look as though he was disregarding his own safety, but Sam knew beneath the façade, Dean was checking out every nook and cranny, not to mention all the viable escape routes they might need. He shook his head and allowed himself a small, indulgent smile. Dean wasn't one to be kept down for long.
Looking past his brother, Sam spotted the kiln and, to his relief, he noted it was already fired up, presumably full of earthenware being fired for the morning. He felt a brief pang of regret for the already lost artwork as he cautiously opened up the heavy door of the oven, hand wrapped in a heat resistant glove conveniently hanging on a nail in the wall alongside the kiln. He stepped back as the heat from inside blasted into him, raising his other hand protectively across his face.
"Whatcha got, Sammy?" Dean hissed across the studio.
Sam shrugged as he surveyed the contents of the kiln. "Sculptures, plates. Nothing special," he reported as he surveyed the contents of the shelves. Even his untrained eye could tell there were no undiscovered future Rodins hiding amongst the clay pieces and he gently swung the door closed again, even while he knew he'd probably already ruined the firing process.
"Is it hot?" Dean pressed, not really caring about the contents, only really worried about whether he would be able to smelt the Roman artifacts and put an end to Ovidius' reign of violence. He still couldn't shake the feeling he was responsible for Portia's death but the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the kill were going some way to mollifying the guilt.
Sam snorted at the question and threw a glare in Dean's direction. "Yes," he replied, very slowly as though explaining something to a child. "It's very hot, Dean. It's firing pottery."
"Alright, smart ass," Dean retorted. "I'm just covering all our bases." He moved over to a workbench and settled himself on the edge, hands in pockets, fingers wrapped tightly around the ancient hair accessories.
"Now what?" Sam wondered. "Do we just sit around and hope Ovidius knows where we are? Hope he comes to us? Or did you have a cunning plan up your sleeve somewhere?"
Dean smirked and raised his eyebrows. "A cunning plan?" he repeated in mock amazement. "I always have a cunning plan."
"No, Dean. You always have a plan. It's not always cunning. In fact, quite often, they're not even that good."
"Trust me, Sammy," Dean smiled, "this is a cunning plan." He gave a lopsided grin, deciding not to mention the fact he'd only just come up with this particular plan. What Sam didn't know, he theorized, couldn't hurt him. Or give him reason to be any more pissed with Dean than he already seemed to be. Although, on reflection, that could just be Sammy's own unique brand of concern.
"Go on, then," Sam prompted and Dean realized he'd drifted off slightly. "Or is it a super-secret plan?"
"Ha, ha," Dean responded, pulling the Roman jewelry from his pocket and waving it in front of him like flag. "This is my plan," he explained.
"Waving jewelry around? He's not a hunting dog, Dean. He's not going to pick up a scent just from you waving it about."
"No," Dean agreed. "But we still have two pieces, a comb and a pin. How pissed is Ovi going to be if we smelt one? I'll bet you dinner he shows up before we do it to the last piece."
Sam thought about Dean's theory for a few minutes, watching as his brother twirled the hair comb absently round his fingers. It was mesmerizing watching the jewels glint in between Dean's long fingers and Sam found himself wondering how hands capable of such intricate dexterity could wreak such damage on things with equal skill.
"Okay," he finally agreed. "But how do we know he'll have the other pin on him?"
Dean ceased his fidgeting with the comb and drew his eyebrows down. It wasn't really an option he'd considered. "Huh," he managed, then shook his head. "He will," he declared certainly. "I'm sure he will."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Well, we'll just have to adapt as and when that happens."
"And how do you propose to get it off him if he does have it?" Sam asked, knowing already Dean had some half-cocked plan for this eventuality but wanting, needing, to hear him vocalize it anyway.
"That's an easy one, Sammy," Dean smirked. "I'll distract him while you grab it."
"Why did I just know you were gonna say that?" Sam shook his head in mock despair. "That's just plain crazy, Dean. Look at you. You've already gone one round with Ovidius and you didn't exactly come out on top, did you?" He paused and waited for the inevitable protest from his older sibling. Just as Dean opened his mouth to voice his disapproval, Sam continued, "No, I'll distract him, you grab the pin."
"No," Dean refused bluntly.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm the older brother. It's my job."
"You're hurt already," Sam pointed out in a far too reasonable voice. "You'd manage to keep him occupied for what? Thirty seconds? No. Forget it. I'm doing it."
"No, Sam. Just, no."
"Not arguing on this one, Dean," Sam argued, grimacing at the irony of his statement. "I'm doing it."
Dean sighed and studied Sam's face, taking in the set determination of his features. He wasn't even trying the puppy eyes, he was just going straight for the "don't piss me off" look.
"Fine," he huffed. "You suck at picking pockets anyway."
Sam smiled and let that one go. He knew when to take what he could get and right now this was a pretty good result as far as he was concerned.
"Let's get on with it then," he agreed, not rising to the bait.
Dean slid off the workbench he had perched himself on and made his way over to the kiln. Sam tried to ignore the stiffness with which he moved and turned his attention instead to the workshop itself. Dean felt Sam move his eyes away from him and cursed softly at his own perceived weakness. Reaching the kiln he dragged his jacket sleeve down over his hand, eschewing the oven glove at the side. Grabbing hold of the handle he released the catch and opened the door. Momentarily surprised by the heat, he twirled the hair comb round his fingers one last time before tossing it forcibly into the kiln, heedless of the plethora of clayware slowing baking on the shelves.
Passing the remaining hairpin to Sam, he slammed the door shut, ignoring the sound of breaking clay from within.
Standing back, Dean turned to Sam and tilted his head to one side. "Now we wait," he announced and leant back against the wall.
It didn't take long. Within three minutes the temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Dean cast Sam a glance that Sam just knew was his "I told you so" look and, nodding briefly at Dean, Sam straightened up. He could feel tendrils of ice sliding down his spine and he knew without turning that Ovidius had made his appearance.
The apparition of the Roman centurion was standing by the door, posture straight and rigid and his eyes, such as they were, fixed on the remaining piece of jewelry clasped tightly in Sam's hand. Feeling the cold glare on his back, Sam turned slowly, determined to give Dean the best chance possible. His eyes slewed up and down the soldier's form, throat drying as he took in the sunken eyes which seemed to be firing pure hate at the brothers. Relief swept over him when he spotted the hair comb hanging loosely at Ovidius' waist, clipped to a sturdy leather belt.
The relief that Sam felt was magnified threefold in Dean. He hadn't been entirely sure this plan would work, he'd been putting on his game face, surprised it worked on Sam but he supposed the recent events in the Whittaker household had also taken their toll on his usually sensitive brother. The sight of the hair comb was like nectar to a bee and he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders.
He shuffled sideways so he had a clear view of the soldier while still being in a position to aid Sam if necessary. Yes, it was his job to retrieve the artifact, but he was never off duty when it came to protecting Sam. The hair comb was fixed loosely and Dean reckoned he could unclip it without Ovidius even noticing, as long as Sam managed to distract him for a couple of minutes. Just long enough for him to sidle round the edge of the room without being spotted.
Sam knew what Dean had in mind and he knew he needed to keep Ovidius' attention on him, however unwelcome and painful that may turn out to be. But Dean's plan seemed to have one flaw. Sam couldn't use weapons against the spirit. Salt and iron would dispel the ghost and he would take the comb with him. So the iron knife in his pocket was as good as useless, as was Dean's shotgun.
But time suddenly was no longer on his side. Ovidius had finally recognized Dean and he had fixed his stare on the older Winchester, narrowing his eyes as he did so.
Unwilling to let Dean provide the distraction, Sam did the only thing he could think of. He waved the hairpin in the air, taunting the Roman with the prize he had come to capture.
"Is this what you're after?" Sam spoke softly, but it had the desired effect . In the stillness of the studio he might as well have been shouting at the top of his voice. "C'mon," he whispered. "Come and get it."
Dean shuddered at the menacing tone of his little brother's voice, remembering what he often chose to forget. Sam could be just as scary as him, sometimes more so.
Ovidius stopped in his advance on Dean and turned to Sam, halting completely when he recognized what Sam was waving around with abandon. Sam swallowed hard as he registered the second the Roman's attitude changed. He was no longer after a round with Dean, not now he could retrieve the remaining gift for his long dead wife.
Sam couldn't stop the pained grimace as Ovidius turned on him. He just knew the next few minutes were going to hurt and he could only hope that Dean was going to be quick. He held his ground as the Roman advanced on him slowly, a cold smile creeping across his face.
Waiting as long as he could in order to give Dean every advantage, Sam finally decided he had to move. Ovidius was only a few feet away from him now and he could see every battle scar on the warrior's face. The stench of death and warfare hung off the apparition like a cloak and Sam had to stop himself gagging in response.
Edging towards the kiln, Sam steeled himself for the impending attack he knew was just seconds away as he stretched his arm out to the door. Ovidius' stance changed instantly and he reached a muscle-bound arm out to the younger Winchester. Sam felt the pressure, like a hurricane sweeping across the room, pinpointing only him. His feet left the floor and it was only afterward he realized it was a shelf of finished plates he had careened into.
The clay pieces shattered into a thousand pieces under his weight, the shelving itself collapsing on top of him. And he was right. It hurt. A lot. The impact of his back with the shelf sent sharp spikes of pain up his spine, reverberating down his arm and it was pure willpower that kept his fist closed around the jewelry. He shook his head to clear it where the back of his skull had cushioned the fall of several jagged fragments of pottery.
Ovidius paused in his advance and an eerie sound filled the room. Dean halted his own advance and looked on in shock as the Roman centurion cawed with laughter. Part of him wanted to forget the whole hair comb business and just beat the crap out of anyone, or thing, that dared to hurt his brother and then laugh about it. But the hunter side of his brain was telling him to suck it up and get the hell on with the job in hand. A brief inspection of his brother reassured him that Sam was, in fact, okay and that he needed to hurry up.
Refocusing hurriedly, Dean resumed his progress toward the comb. Ovidius hadn't appeared to notice him, or if he had there was no indication he considered the older hunter to be any kind of threat. Dean pressed home his advantage and, moving with an ingrained stealth he'd learnt many years ago, he was soon within a finger's breadth of his goal.
Ovidius, oblivious to the proximity of the threat, had stopped laughing but the expression on his face as he loomed over the shaky form of Sam was just as frightening. His eyes glinted with the promise of untold atrocities he would bestow on the fallen Winchester and his smile was devoid of all emotion.
As Dean reached forward and made a grab for the hair comb, Ovidius leant towards Sam, leaving Dean clutching at thin air, and wrapped calloused fingers round Sam's throat. Sam gasped and scrabbled for the corporeal wrists before him. He kicked out with his feet, desperately trying to gain purchase on the floor, slipping on fragments of clay and pottery. As he fought for air, he was vaguely aware that Dean was fumbling in his jacket pocket and he hoped he had some kind of hidden weapon in there.
The room began to spin gently and as his vision began to gray at the edges, Sam felt his arms turn to lead as his hands slipped off Ovidius' wrists, falling heavily to the floor.
Suddenly the pressure around his throat was gone and Sam found he could breathe again. Sucking in huge gulps of air, he waited for his vision to clear, only to find Dean in his face, concerned green eyes studying him.
"D'n?" he managed to croak.
"Knifed him," Dean explained, succinctly, brandishing the iron dagger Sam had seen him groping for in his pocket.
Sam nodded briefly and hauled himself up, wincing when his back twinged in protest. Accepting Dean's outstretched hands, he managed to find his feet and get himself off the floor.
"Did you get it?" he asked, rubbing his tender neck with one hand, the one that wasn't hanging on to the hair pin with a tenaciousness Dean had come to recognize as a sign of Sam's determination and stubbornness.
"No," he shook his head. "Didn't seem important somehow. You know, what with you being strangled and everything." He paused and took another good look at his brother. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, Dean," Sam replied, ignoring the slight croak but feeling quite pleased that his voice didn't break on the last word as he'd feared.
Dean narrowed his eyes skeptically. "Okay," he finally acknowledged. "Ovi's gone for now but it won't last. He'll be back for round two any minute so we don't have long. He knows what we're doing now and he's pissed."
"And?" Sam was having a little trouble following Dean's line of thinking.
"And he's gonna come in twice as hard this time. So if you're not okay…" he trailed off into a telling silence.
Sam smiled and shook his head. He opened his mouth to reply when movement just behind Dean's shoulder caught his attention. Watching his little brother, Dean's only warning of the Roman's reappearance was the widening of his eyes. Too slow to turn around, Dean gasped as an ice cold lancet pierced his upper body, entering through the center of his shoulder blades and exiting his chest through the middle of his ribcage.
Eyes flying open in pained shock, Dean couldn't even cry out. He locked eyes with Sam, whose own eyes reflected his horror. He vaguely heard Sam call his name but the pain numbed every other sense. Breathing was becoming an effort and he thought Sam was holding on to his shoulders but he couldn't be sure. Any awareness of his surroundings was slowly blurring into a miasma of colors and sounds, the main one being the sound of his own blood pounding through his head.
Suddenly he felt Sam being pushed away from him and he forced his eyes to focus on his brother, shocked to see Ovidius' arm reaching through his body to grab for the hair pin Sam still held. Though his strength was failing, Dean's overriding desire to put an end to the warrior pushed his body on to heights he didn't know he had.
Sam was pushing himself into the wall as best he could, keeping himself as far away from Ovidius as possible, while frantically trying to work out how to help Dean. His brother was pale and sweating and Sam couldn't even begin to imagine how he felt, being impaled by a ghostly limb as he was. He dodged the hand grasping for him, all the while imploring Dean to stay lucid and rational in his mind.
Dropping his head when the effort of holding it up became too much, Dean noticed with detached interest that in reaching through him, Ovidius had put the remaining hair comb within his reach. Wondering idly through the pain if he could reach it or not, Dean tentatively stretched out his arm behind him. His fingers brushed against the leather belt and, using his faltering memory of where the comb had been attached, he groped weakly until he felt something hard and cold in his palm.
Forcing his hand to form a fist, he put all his remaining energy into one final yank. The sudden lack of resistance from the belt took Dean by surprise. The strength of the wrench pulled Dean away from the arm skewering him, dropping him to the floor. The agony of impalement, Dean mused, was nothing compared to the agony of release.
Sam watched with relief as he saw Dean drop to the floor, Ovidius' artifact in his hand, and turned his attention back to the soldier standing before him. His icy fingers had finally reached him and he grasped the front of Sam's shirt in both hands, ignoring the hunter on the ground. He hauled Sam away from the wall and flung him to the corner of the room. Sam's already injured back screeched in protest, but he was happy to take it if it meant Dean could get to the kiln.
He kept Dean under close observation as his brother crawled on all fours toward the kiln, panting heavily. Just catching sight of Ovidius' fist flying at him, Sam ducked just a little too late, the blow glancing off his temple with enough strength to knock him to the floor, stunning him briefly.
Shaking his head to clear his vision, Sam realized the follow up blow had never come. Quickly turning his attention to Dean, he was shocked to see Ovidius had abandoned him in favor of his brother. Ovidius was moving far quicker than Dean could possibly hope to in his current state, and Sam was in no shape to help him.
Dean, however, had reached the kiln and was stretching an arm up to the door. Sam felt like cheering as Dean managed to get the door open, just as Ovidius grabbed hold of his ankle and pulled hard. Dean lost his balance and crashed to the ground, his chin slamming into the hard floor. He couldn't stop the groan as his top teeth bit into his lower lip, splitting the soft flesh. As Ovidius began to drag himself up Dean's legs, the hunter twisted onto his back, kicking out in an effort to dislodge the soldier.
Realizing it was useless, the Roman like a barnacle on his shins, he arched his back and flung his arm back, releasing the hair comb at the top of his swing. Praying he'd got his calculations right, hoping the trajectory was on course, he let his head fall back and concentrated on defending himself.
Letting out a roar of fury as the comb hit the kiln with unerring accuracy, Ovidius vented his anger with one devastating blow to Dean's stomach. Unable to protect himself, Dean gasped and folded up on himself, uselessly trying to shake the warrior off his legs.
And then he was gone.
Rolling on to his side, curling round his abused abdomen, coughing and gasping for air, he squinted round the workshop through watery eyes.
"Sam!" he groaned as he spotted Ovidius making a beeline for his brother. Sam needed no warnings though. He'd watched in horror as the spirit had pummeled and pounded his brother and felt the elation as Dean's aim proved to be as true as ever. He knew the final piece of the jigsaw lay in his hand and he needed to get it to the kiln where it would join its sisters.
He felt the surrounding coldness of the room as Ovidius stomped towards him, the poise and aura around him falling into obscurity to be replaced with rage and incoherent ranting from the soldier.
Sam eyed the distance still between him and the open kiln, grateful that Dean had thought to leave the door hanging wide. His own aim had always been something to be proud of, maybe not quite as honed as his brother's own skills, but he had no worries about being able to hit the mark.
But he wasn't close enough yet and the attack he had endured himself had left him depleted and weary. One look at Dean though was enough to spur him on. His brother now had his eyes closed and although Sam could see he was still conscious, he knew he needed to end this now and get his brother to the motel where he could rest and heal.
Renewed with determination, Sam sprinted as best he could across the remaining distance between him and the kiln. Ovidius, surprised by this turn of events, swiveled on his heels, slipping slightly on a piece of discarded pottery.
The slip gave Sam the momentary advantage he needed to gain a few vital inches. Just as he felt the soldier's cold fingers gain purchase on the back of his jacket, jerking him to a premature halt, he hurled the hairpin towards the kiln.
Sam's aim was spot on, and as the pin flew through the air, he finally let himself relax, secure in the knowledge the antique was seconds away from being consigned to the depths of lost history.
Allowing himself to be pulled backwards, refusing to put up a fight, Sam fell back on Ovidius. The Roman had not yet realized what he'd done and was grinning manically at his perceived success. But as the hairpin began to melt, succumbing to the intense heat of the kiln, he released Sam who dropped to the floor and rolled away from the spirit.
Scrambling across the workshop to where Dean lay, eyes at half mast, Sam threw an arm over his face, shielding his brother with his upper body as Ovidius exploded in a plume of white flames.
Dean threw the last bag into the trunk of the Impala and closed it with a weary slam. Leaning back against his baby's body, he leant his head back and gazed at the clouds, unable to shake the feeling he hadn't done quite what he should have.
His reverie was disturbed by the sound of a car pulling into the parking lot, and he pulled his attention back to the present. He watched with mild interest as the car stopped neatly next to his and he smiled at the driver.
Sarah stepped out looking as fresh as a daisy, but she had a slight frown on her face when she looked up at Dean's bruised countenance.
"Don't worry," he forestalled her. "It's superficial. And Sam's fine too."
She smiled and began to reply as the door of the boys' motel room opened and Sam appeared on the threshold, carrying his laptop. He stopped as soon as he saw her and she stepped forward, past Dean, pausing long enough to give him a grateful little nod, although what it was for, Dean wasn't sure.
"Listen," he declared. "There's a little coffee shop I noticed down the road. I'm going to get us some breakfast. Okay?" Not waiting for an answer, he swung the door of the Impala open and hopped in.
Oblivious to Dean's remarkable show of discretion, Sam ushered Sarah inside the room.
"So," she started, "did you get him?"
"Yeah, yeah, we did," Sam assured her. "He's gone and the jewelry too. He won't be back."
Sarah nodded and smiled. "What about Dean?" she asked coyly.
"Dean?" Sam's look of puzzlement was a sight to be seen. "He'll be back. He's only gone for coffee."
"That's not what I meant," Sarah laughed. "When did your brother become so tactful?"
Sam shrugged, finally understanding what she meant. "Who knows?" he remarked. "Does it matter?" He looked down at the girl standing in front of him and smiled.
"So, when are you leaving?" she asked, already knowing the answer. She'd seen Dean close the trunk, seen the bags, and the room they were in was devoid of any trace of the brothers.
"Sarah," Sam began, hesitantly.
"Sam," she interrupted. "It's okay. I get it. This is what you do." She broke off, trying to hide her emotions, and stepped past Sam.
"I'll see you again," Sam offered, turning to catch hold of her.
"Maybe," Sarah agreed softly.
"If you want to, that is." Sam sounded hesitant, unsure of himself. "I mean, it's not like I'm a great catch or anything. All I ever seem to do is bring you trouble."
Sarah reached out a gentle hand and dropped it on Sam's chest. "Hardly your fault," she replied. "I called you this time, remember? And I don't recall you sending those demons to my place. And it wasn't you that killed Portia."
"But none of that would have happened if you didn't know me," Sam continued. "I mean, I'd understand if you never want to see or hear from me again."
Sarah smiled sadly as she reached up and put a finger on Sam's lips.
"You know what, Sam?" she asked him. "You're right. It would be easiest to never hear from you again. I could go on with my life pretending you don't exist, never wonder how you are, not worry that you're lying somewhere dead. My head tells me that all the time. But life doesn't work that way." She let her hand drop from Sam's face to his bicep and she rested her forehead on his chest. "You're in my life now, Sam. Have been since the day you walked into my father's auction rooms. I know your life is dangerous. I know you might be dead tomorrow. But I've seen what you and Dean do, the good you do, the people you help. That's worth the risk."
She stopped and stepped back from Sam slightly, looking up into his eyes. He licked his lips and nodded slowly.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure," she replied, kissing him gently on the cheek. "You still have work to do, Sam. But when you're done, if you're ever done, I'll still be here. You know where to find me."
The End