December 12, 2007 (cont)
Dean's concerns hadn't solidified into a specific fear. Logic, a lifetime's worth of evidence of certain realities, tried to insist that Little John had woken from a bad dream. Something deeper, more instinctive, knew that a nightmare wouldn't have sent him into a headlong rush on a route that took him over rather than around furniture. Bizarre conversations with strange visitors had sparked paranoid speculations in his mind, but he hadn't really believed them. He hadn't been truly prepared for what waited for him when he burst through the bedroom door.
Little John was not in the bed, nor was he alone in the room. It didn't matter that the woman that held him before herself like a shield, one arm wrapped around his torso, was small in stature, not very formidable looking at all. It was the nasty looking T-handled blade that she held to the child's throat that kept him controlled. He barely dared to turn terror stricken eyes towards his father when Dean exploded into the room.
"Dean Winchester," the intruder greeted him casually, as if this were a chance meeting at a party, but with a certain menacing quality thinly veiled under the feigned civility, "so nice to meet you." Her gaze played over Dean's frame, "They told me you were prime cut, but I had no idea how true that was."
Dean barely heard the words. Primal protective instinct, not interested in words, drove him forward. He only made it a single step.
"Uh-uh, don't do that, Daddy," the woman warned him, tightening her grip on her hostage, "or else Junior here stains the carpet."
Dean's higher functions clicked back in and he stopped short. His heart pounded in his chest as the fact that there was no way to cross the distance before it would be too late took hold. Fear and anger grappled with each other in his head, battling for control and he struggled to beat them both back and stay clear enough to think.
"Dean?" Brenda's voice called from up the hall.
"Don't come in here!" he yelled over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from his son for fear of what might happen if he looked away. "Call 911!" he added.
The woman's jerked her gaze to one side and a crash sounded from the living room. Brenda's cry sounded more like surprise than pain, for what little comfort that provided. "Afraid I can't let her do that, Dean." the stranger explained, "We need to do this without interruptions."
"What the hell is this?" Dean demanded, his mind racing for a way to deal with the situation while struggling to keep the urge to panic controlled. "Whatever you want, just take it and go."
"Whatever I want?" she responded playfully. The whole situation seemed to be excessively entertaining to her. She played the blade over the soft flesh of Little John's neck, letting the edge scratch lightly over his skin, "What if what I want is to see your face when I open your brat like a bag of chips?" A frightened whimper squeaked out of the boy.
Dean fought down a wave of nausea, expecting the worst, but it didn't come. A puzzle piece clicked into place in his mind. Whether from years of poker games or the blood of his ancestors waking up and flowing through his veins for the first time with the strength and resolve of a hunter there was no way to know. Hope dared to blossom in his chest, however, because what he did know, for sure, was, she was bluffing.
"No," he said as coolly as he could manage, fighting off a shudder at the thought of the stakes he was playing for, "if that was it, you'd have just done it by now."
She stopped toying with the knife, "Clever," observed, "beauty and brains, I can see why you're a keeper."
Dean's heart leapt at the small victory. He chanced a glance down, trying to catch Little John's eye. There was but fear there and Dean couldn't be sure that the boy saw through the haze of it at first. Then, hesitantly, his eyes shifted and met his father's gaze. Hold on, son, Dean thought earnestly, willing Little John to somehow hear him. I don't know how, but I swear, I'm going to get you out of this.
Hoping he wasn't overplaying his hand Dean addressed the woman, "You know my name, what I look like. It's not him you want. You're here for me."
"Not bad," she allowed, "we need to talk."
"Fine," Dean hissed, "you want me, you got me. Let the kid go and we'll talk about whatever you want, sweetheart." He hoped the shake in his voice was just his imagination.
"Oh, Dean," disappointment tinted her voice, "and here I was thinking you were smart." She hunched over putting her own face inches from the captive child's, taking in the sight of his frightened expression like an art piece on display. "Why would I give up my leverage without getting anything out of the deal?" she asked.
"What do you want?" Dean demanded, frustration making him forget about caution. He just wanted this over, the costs be damned.
"You love him, don't you?" she asked impassively, still examining her small hostage. The word sounded strange in her mouth, as if she didn't quite grasp the concept.
"Yes!" Dean whispered hoarsely on reflex. He wasn't sure where this was going and a countermove eluded him.
"See, that works in my favor." she explained breaking off her study of the frightened child and looking back at Dean. "That's what makes you humans so easy."
Under less stress, less distracted, Dean might have put the pieces together. As it was, it was just one more odd thing about a situation already bizarre in a dozen ways. Had it really been this same night that he'd been rifling cupboards, his biggest concern uncovering any hidden stashes of liquor?
"Would you die for him?" the woman asked with interest. Little John, too frightened to even manage a whimper shook viably as the cold metal of the knife edge pressed against his throat. Sad, desperate eyes begged his father to somehow make it all go away.
"Yes!" Dean blurted without thought or hesitation.
"I knew that." she informed him, "but I have to ask for formality." She rolled her eyes, seemingly annoyed, "It's a whole thing."
"Just tell me what you want!" Dean yelled, fighting down the urge to bolt across the room. No way that ends well. He was ready to do whatever it took to get Little John safely out of that room. The time wasting cat a and mouse was testing his already frayed nerves.
"All right, Dean," she snapped, "since you're going to suck all the fun out of this, we'll cut to the chase. Would you go to Hell for him?"
"Would I...what?" Dean stammered, unable to process what he'd heard.
"It's very simple, Dean." she answered, suddenly all business, "Would you willingly damned your soul to everlasting torment just to buy this fragile little thing a handful more decades, a drop in the ocean of time, in this imperfect mess of a world?"
"Yes," Dean answered desperately.
"See, I knew you would say that too, but here's the thing," she paused and while Dean watched disbelieving her eyes filled with darkness, becoming somehow blacker than black, "it doesn't count because you don't really believe it."
Things Dean had always assumed he knew for a fact collided in his brain with what he saw with his own two eyes and became a hopeless tangle. All he could do was stammer, "What the hell are you?"
"Don't be stupid, Dean." she snapped impatiently. "You know. You just don't want to admit it. It messes with your fragile little view of the world. Well, sack up and get over it because self deception isn't a luxury you have anymore. Now one more time, for all the marbles, knowing it's for real, your soul in Hell for your brat's pathetic life, deal?"
"Yes, fine, deal," Dean frantically agreed sparing no time on consideration.
With a sadistic smirk the she-demon shoved Little John off to the side, all interest in him gone now that she'd achieved her objective. The boy tumbled to the floor where he curled up on himself. His emotional dam burst and sobs shook his small body.
"Stay!" the demon barked when Dean moved to bolt to his son. She crossed the room, something about her black, insect like eyes holding Dean pinned where he was, transfixed. She took his face in her hands, smiling seductively. For a moment Dean thought she intended to kiss him. He began to pull back in revulsion. There was a quick motion. A grating crunch filled his ears and scraped against the inner wall of his skull and he was looking down at his own body, head twisted at an impossible angle. Lifeless green eyes stared off into the distance at nothing.
"Welcome to the other side, Dean-o." the demon said dryly.
Before he could think to respond a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood interrupted. Urgent voices sounded from up the hall.
"Time to go." the demon observed. She grabbed ahold of the disembodied soul and they were gone.
Dean wasn't there to see Robert erupt into the room, nearly tripping over the fresh corpse. "Damn it," the old hunter cursed dropping to one knee to feel for a pulse that he knew he wouldn't find. Guilt and grief boiled up in him, but he shoved it down. There would be time later. He moved quickly to scoop up Little John from where he lay crying on the floor.
Instinctively the terrorized child turned towards comfort, burying his face in Robert's chest as the hunter carried him from the room. Robert couldn't be sure how much the boy had seen, but was determined that he wasn't going to see any more, not tonight. Ignoring the wet circle of tears and snot that blossomed on his shirt he moved quickly to the door, getting the kid clear before he caught a glimpse of his father's body still and lifeless on the floor.
In the living room Christian was attempting to keep a frantic, disheveled Brenda contained without manhandling her. He ceased his efforts when Robert entered the room, allowing her to dart around him and rush forward to retrieve her son. As Robert transferred Little John into his mother's eager arms he caught Christian's eye over her shoulder and gave a grim faced shake of his head.
Without instruction or response Christian moved towards the hallway. He knew, without being told, that Robert wouldn't leave Dean's body behind and that was what was right. Civilian upbringing or not, the guy did have guts and he'd gone out like a hunter in the end. A proper funeral was the least they could do, considering that they'd been too late to do more.
Brenda tearfully tried to calm Little John and check him for damage at the same time. "Get packed," Robert told her, "I can give you five minutes. Less would be better."
"What? I don't...who…?" she stammered too shook to be able to complete the thought. Being flung through the air and pinned to a wall, left unable to move, unable to scream, trapped by something she couldn't see, or even really feel had taken a toll. She was functioning primarily on instinct for the moment.
Robert took her chin in calloused fingers, gently but firmly making her look at him, "Girl, you listen to me. I'm getting real damn tired of making the same mistake over and over again. You're coming with us to someplace safe. That's just the way it's going to be. You can walk out to the truck on your own, or I can have Christian carry you kicking and screaming, whichever way you want to do it. Now, do you want to get some things together for you and the boy before we go?"
Enough of what he was saying filtered through the haze of her overloaded awareness. She nodded numbly, not understanding, but able to accept that something beyond her ability to handle on her own was happening. It would take time before it took root and grew, but the seed of knowledge that everything Dean had told her had been true had been planted.