ENTITY (Chapter Eleven)

Warning: This chapter contains significant violence.

From Chapter Ten:

Dean trusted his brother and he believed in him, but this…. As Sam moved away, Dean caught his wrist, unable to speak when Sam looked at him, his pain-glazed eyes questioning. The control Sam had over the pain, over the entity, was solid but wearing. Dean had seen his brother tire under the assault, and now he was bleeding. Untended, it would get worse. It wasn't that Marcus' teachings were flawed, or Sam had messed up and forgotten the lessons… it was the entity. Exorcising its little buddy had backed it into a corner, and Dean knew Sam was right. It was desperate to find a replacement host and what better than the one that had gotten away. It would not kill Sam outright. But it would seriously mess him up before it realized the futility of its efforts. That huge empty room with its pretty glass windows, bare brick walls and steel girded ceiling would be Sam's own torture chamber. And Dean would witness it all.

He grasped Sam's wrist tighter, then squeezed once and let go. Their eyes locked, but neither spoke. There were no words for what they would face, and no words for what it might bring. Sam looked away first, his whispered, "We've got work to do," breaking the tentative connection and Dean felt the loss like a barbed arrow through his heart.

Chapter Eleven

"Sam, don't," Dean said as he gently pushed his brother back with one hand. "I've got this. You go and sit down."

"I can help."

"Yes, you can, but you need to save your strength. Go and sit down." He gestured toward the opposite side of the small second level foyer within which they now worked. Sam hesitated, clearing intending to argue, so Dean hardened his gaze and his tone. "Now Sam."

The younger boy's lips drew into a thin line and he hunched his shoulders. He wiped at the thin trail of blood that hugged his upper lip, then turned and returned to the far wall. He sat down, his back against the wall, his long legs extended out before him. He crossed them at the ankles and hugged his arms around his stomach. He watched Dean, his blue-green eyes haunted.

"Make sure the screws go into the studs, Dean."

"I know."

"The screen won't hold otherwise."

"I know."

"You need to silicone the lip of the lid. Do that once you're inside, so the seal holds. And clean the lip first, it'll have residue from last time."

"I know." Dean averted his gaze and continued working. The Plexiglass screen that had saved Dean from injury during the exorcism of Beth would serve to protect him from Tara. The basic set-up would remain unchanged, the tethering method as it had been before. But stronger. Sam had demanded that. Extra wall fixings, the screws more solid, a line of adhesive at the base. And fixings to the floor. Dean had agreed, but even if he had not, the argument would have been impossible to win. Dean worked quickly, the technique practiced. Still, tension knotted his shoulders and unsteadied his hands. Several times he slipped and skinned the knuckles of his fingers. He swore under his breath.

"What else is downstairs?" Sam asked after several minutes.

"Construction material mostly. Looks like the renovators moved out in a hurry. There's a few things we can use."

Sam fell quiet and Dean glanced at him. The younger boy's eyes had taken on a slightly glazed look and Dean knew it was from the pain. Sam was not handling it well. He had not left the upper floor since their arrival, forced to rely on Dean to select the most appropriate material for the task, but his insistence on supervising Dean's construction method was taking its toll. Sam should be concentrating on blocking, on reserving his strength. But he was not, and it was wearing him down.

Dean quickly finished up, stood and moved to his brother. He crouched before Sam, his heart clenching at the unmasked pain on the younger man's face. He rested one hand on Sam's shoulder. "Is there any other way?" he asked gently, a tremor in his voice. He swallowed hard and waited for Sam to answer.

"No."

"There's still ammo in the Chevy. It's an acceptable risk."

"No it's not."

"I can take care of it. All of it. You don't need to be there."

Sam's expression twisted. "No, Dean. No. We've been over this. Even if I could accept the idea of you doing that, which I can't, it could backfire. It's not worth the risk."

"You are worth the risk, Sam."

Sam turned his head to the side. "We're doing this. It's the only way."

It was not what Dean wanted to hear. It was not what he was willing to accept. He stood and retreated downstairs. He stopped at the landing between the first and second levels, his legs shaking, his knees weak. He slumped against the wall but resisted the urge to slide down. His breath came in ragged, sharp pants that pitted his vision and numbed his hands. He flexed his fingers and struggled to regain control. He couldn't.

He slid to the floor of the narrow landing, his vision blurred and wet warmth on his cheeks. He angrily scrubbed at his eyes and sucked in a hard, long breath. Sam deserved better than this. But Dean could see no options. No way out. For either of them. But he would be damned if he wouldn't give his baby brother a fighting chance.

He returned to his brother, his arms laden with materials sourced from the lower levels of the warehouse and from dumpsters nearby. Some of it smelled of mustiness, waste and other things that Dean did not want to know about. He knelt on one knee, unloaded his burden and offered a wan smile at Sam. The younger boy blinked and regarded him wearily. He lazily scanned the items Dean had brought in. His gaze locked on one item and one corner of his mouth twitched.

"You can't stop the music," he said dryly.

Dean frowned and scanned the small pile. "What?"

"Nobody can stop the music," Sam continued and his voice had taken on a slight off-key lilt. He raised his eyebrows at Dean, then gestured to the yellow construction helmet. "Try making me wear flannel sleeveless shirts and I'll pound your ass."

Dean got it, and he forced a thin smile. It faded just as quickly as the hideous rendition of the Village People song. "You're not going to argue, are you?"

"No. It's a good idea. But what's the rest of that stuff?"

"Packaging, aka padding. And these," he picked up a roll of hard, flexible plastic. "Wrist and elbow guards." He hesitated, glanced at Sam's lanky legs, and added, "and for those knobby knees of yours as well."

Sam smiled faintly, his attention sliding to the item that Dean had not explained. He picked up the safety vest and fingered it. "What have you done to it?"

"Made some minor enhancements."

"Do I need to be afraid, MacGyver? You know your track record with home-made gadgets."

"Not the EMF again, Sam."

"No, I was referring to the hair dryer you converted to a thermal scanner. What the hell were you thinking, you freak. You took out half of the power grid in that shit-hole town that we were in."

"Half the power grid constituted twenty houses, and it would have worked. It just needed a few modifications."

"You needed modifications after Dad had finished with you."

Dean grinned in recollection. "Yeah, he was pretty pissed."

"If you hadn't suffered second degree burns, he would have tanned your ass."

"Yeah, well. At least I showed initiative."

"You had no eyebrows, Dean." Sam hesitated, then a small smile touched his lips. "That was funny."

"Dude, watch it."

Sam's smile faded as he fingered the reinforced vest. He fell quiet as his long fingers teased at the black and orange acrylic. Dean dropped his gaze, sucked in a breath and snagged the plastic roll. He unwound a length, cut it off and flexed into a loose shape. He hesitated, then gently touched Sam's wrist. Sam flinched, then raised his arm, allowing Dean to fashion the plastic into a snug protective guard that hugged the contour of Sam's forearm, tight around the muscle yet not too tight to prohibit movement.

"It's not cutting in?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, his gaze averted. When prompted, he offered his other arm and Dean repeated the procedure. He similarly taped protective guards around Sam's ankles and knees. Throughout it, Sam remained quiet and compliant, but Dean sensed the younger boy's growing anxiety and felt the building tremors through his muscles. Still Sam would not look at him, his fingers tightly clenched around the vest.

Dean gently reclaimed it, his own hands shaking as he wordlessly helped his brother into it. It fastened at the front, but Dean had cinched in the back so that the fitting was secure against his brother's lean, muscular frame. Once on, it required a slight adjustment at the shoulders and Dean started on it, his breath catching at the tears standing in Sam's eyes. The vague tremors had exacerbated to full on trembling, and the bleeding had increased.

Dean's movement stilled. He held his breath as Sam's tentative bravado continued to erode before his eyes. He drew his hands down to Sam's biceps, hoping for a reassuring touch but it seemed to further agitate his already panicked sibling.

"You need to breathe, Sam." He struggled to remember what he had observed Marcus doing, how the psychic had calmed Sam down, grounded him. "Take a breath and count to ten. Hold it…"

Sam shook his head and tore his gaze away. "I don't think I can do this."

Dean tensed and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm scared, Dean," Sam said admitted, his tone heavy with shame and fear. As though mortified that he had admitted it, he tried to pull away, tried to stand. Dean stopped him.

"Sam, calm down."

"Dean, no. I can't block it. I can't hold it off. You won't have enough time. I don't want to die, Dean. I'm not ready," he finished in a rush, his glazed eyes darting, shiny with pain and fear. He again tried to stand and Dean gently pushed him back. The entity had obviously upped the intensity of its connection in an effort to break Sam. And the bastard's strategy was working. The kid was rattled, falling apart, his courageous emotional barriers shattered.

"Dean, please. I can't… I can't…" he broke off, his breath catching on a sob. He seemed to try to catch himself, tried to wipe at his bleeding nose with one arm but the protective plastic wrapping prohibited contact with the fabric of his jacket and served to further illustrate the horror of what he was being forced to do. He met Dean's gaze, his eyes pleading and desperate.

It broke Dean and he pulled his brother into his embrace, his own breath catching in his throat. He closed his eyes against the sharp burn of tears as Sam trembled against him, the younger boy's fingers fisted in the back of his jacket, and his chin on Dean's shoulder. Dean felt his little brother's resistance slip away, felt him press against him, and he felt the shuddering as he cried. It lasted too long, but not long enough and then it shifted and Dean felt the change. Sam slumped against him, his sobs taking on a vicious pained sound that scared Dean to the core. He gently pushed his brother back, steadying him against the wall. Sam's eyes were closed, his jaw rigid and the blood from his nostrils heavy and dark.

They were out of time. The entity no longer prepared to wait. Dean eased Sam to his side, into the recovery position, then stood, withdrew the re-loaded Glock from his jeans and moved into the main room. Tara stood stock still in the centre of the room, her unseeing eyes locked on him. He raised the weapon, braced his shaking hands and approached. He stopped ten feet from the child and steadied his aim. He hesitated, uncertain. Not about killing the child, he no longer had any doubt about that, but about where the bullet needed to go to limit the risk of the entity escaping. Heart or head?

He blinked, the room darkened and a sharp, burning scent stung the air. His finger tightened on the trigger, the darkness rose, vapor formed and lashed out. Dean's finger squeezed but the shot went wild as he was struck hard. He fell, hit the floor and slid, stunned. The gun twisted from his grip, hung in mid air then whipped around and Dean found himself staring into the muzzle of his own weapon. His mouth went dry. He froze, his heart pounding. In his peripheral vision, Tara fell to her knees.

The dense shadowy form shimmered, the barest edge of transparency striking through it. The weapon slipped, angled down. The trajectory would still maim and Dean barely dared to breathe. The amorphous vapor spasmed and a blinding sliver of light sliced through it. The gun dropped – thunked hard against the concrete. Dean grunted and sprang back as the vapor sucked back into the child. Her small body twitched as the entity returned. The child lay for a moment, then collected her splayed limbs, stood and wordlessly watched him.

Dean shakily snagged the weapon, the pads of his fingers immediately recognizing the change. He looked down, chilled, his mind unable to immediately comprehend what he saw. He blinked and took a small step back, his fingers loosened on the now useless weapon, the metal formless, misshapen.

"Dean."

He turned, his breath frozen. Sam leaned in the doorway between the two rooms, blood smeared across his face, the safety vest lurid and the padding ridiculous. Dean looked down at the gun. "I think I screwed up," he whispered.

Sam frowned, looked between he and Tara and shook his head. "No, you didn't. You weakened it, Dean. Help me with the helmet then get into the shelter. I can do this now. But we have to move fast."

Dean scanned his brother's face, but only the moist redness of his eyes hinted at the momentary breakdown. The edge of pain was still present, but controlled. Sam had recaptured the qualities of the courageous, strong and fearless hunter that Dean knew and relied upon, the terrified little boy once again tucked deep in Sam's psyche. He mechanically nodded, tucked the now useless weapon in the waistband of his jeans and joined his brother. There was no humor as he fitted the construction helmet to Sam's head and tightened the straps. Sam looked ridiculous, but Dean did not care. If he could have found a protective bubble, full body padding or a fat-suit, he would have forced his brother into it. Anything to keep the kid alive, preferably unscathed but Dean knew that would be asking too much. His hands lingered, toying with the now tight straps. He could not yet break away.

"I trust you, Dean. Whatever happens, it won't be your fault," Sam said softly.

Dean's hands stilled. He looked up. Sam wore an expression of calm resolve, of acceptance. Dean's vision blurred. "Don't you dare talk like that, Sammy," he rasped.

"It will be okay. Whatever happens." Sam hesitated, then a bitter smile curved his lips. "And, it's Sam."

Dean swallowed hard, then whispered, "I know, little brother. I know."

Sam felt Dean's gaze on his back as he approached the child. His hands shook at his sides and he clenched and unclenched, the hard plastic uncomfortable against the tender skin of his inner wrists. He preferred it to the alternative though. It would offer some protection him if he were thrown, and Sam knew he would be.

His steps faltered. Mouth dry, he tried to lick his lips but tasted only blood and the dryness of terror. Sam took full deep breaths, calming, just as Marcus had taught him. It helped, but only the entity's destruction would give Sam the relief he needed. He glanced back at Dean, saw his brother's wide eyed anxiousness. The elder boy had one hand against the Plexiglass, the palm flattered against the plastic. In his other hand he held Beth's book, open to the ritual. He was prepared, but not ready. Neither of them were. But they could wait no longer. Sam steeled his resolve and reached out.

The moment his fingers touched Tara's skin, the entity launched. Even partially neutered by Dean's attempted homicide, it swept forth with significantly more force than that which Sam had encountered with Beth. Sam reflexively darted back, grunting as the shadow leaped upwards, twisted and then shot toward the small foyer… toward Dean. Sam recognized its intent and he frantically reached out with one hand – tried to snag it, distract it. His fingers caught in the dark wisps. Rapidly moving molecules bladed his fingers to the bone. Sam cried out and withdrew.

Dean had read only the first line of the incantation when the entity reached him. It moved with blinding speed and Sam could barely comprehend what was happening as the dense vapor blocked his view. Sound slammed hard, the wretched tearing of molecular destruction. Then Sam knew. He knew what it was doing and he screamed. Barely a heart-beat later, before Sam could rush to his brother's aid, the shadow scaled in on itself and sucked back into the main room. It had Dean, the elder hunter caught and struggling, his legs dangling and hands grappling with the hold around his neck. The malevolent darkness bucked and recoiled, loosening Dean and throwing him. His body flew with all the grace of a child's puppet, then landed hard against the far wall and slid down.

Sam started forward, his momentum negated as his feet swept out from beneath him. The entity propelled him backwards, slammed him hard against the wall and held him there. Constriction around his throat forced Sam to panic, to struggle. It tightened, asphyxiating. His lungs burned. Black spots danced and solidified. His struggles lessened. At the point of near unconsciousness, Sam was released. He dropped, listless, and lay where he had fallen. He watched through slitted eyes as the entity turned its attention to Dean.

Sam moaned and weakly slid his bloodied left hand across the concrete floor. He watched Dean push to his feet. The older boy swayed unsteadily, the right side of his face bloodied. He steadied himself against the wall, his expression dazed but murderous. If big brother protectiveness meant anything, Dean would have had a chance, but it didn't. Sam watched with a sick heart as the entity snagged the older boy, arced back and launched his body at the window.

It all happened so fast. So brutally that Sam struggled to keep up. One moment Dean was there. Then he was not. Splintered glass and silence cascaded. He flinched, the reality of what had just happened not quite registering. He stared, aghast, tried to think, to remember how far to the ground. Two flights of stairs, two levels. At least twenty-five feet. Sweet Jesus.

"No," Sam rasped. He pushed to his feet, swayed and staggered. "Dean. Dean!" He gained his equilibrium and rushed forward, screaming as he was again cut off mid-stride. The violent blind-side shocked Sam's heart into a panicked rhythm. He twisted and pushed, screaming as it lifted him. He was thrown just like his brother had been, but not out the window. The entity wanted him, but it wanted him broken. Sam landed hard, his shoulder and hip taking the worst of the impact. Sharp pain spun through both joints, then dulled to a throb once he had hit the floor. He struggled to push himself up, anger and adrenalin keeping the worst of the shock at bay.

Light blocked as the entity shoved him back, pinned him down and drew his injured hand away from his body. Sam arched back as white hot pain seared through the cuts in his fingers. The onslaught lasted only seconds, but it left Sam sobbing. He rolled onto his side and clutched his shredded hand to his chest. The slices had been opened, the yellow-white of bone and muscle visible against the minced flesh of his palm.

He closed his eyes against hot tears, sucked in a shaky breath and began reciting the exorcism ritual. He had made it a quarter of the way through when it descended again. Sam cinched back, his pulse quickening. Electricity prickled his skin as he was lifted, spun and thrown. Scorched air whistled past his ears before he hit the wall. He momentarily blacked out, then came to in a tangled heap on the floor, choking and spitting blood. He reflexively curled, gasping as pain skewered through his left leg, knifed upward and twisted bile to the back of his throat. He stilled, panting, then recommenced the ritual with a shaky, soft voice.

Fine specks of blood spattered the floor before him. He ignored them and the strange, heavy pull in his chest that prohibited deep breaths. He battled the terror, the pain, the taunting sing-song voice at the back of his mind that told him that his brother was dead. Splattered on the road like a fat, juicy bug on a windshield. He blocked it all and fought with all that he had… and more. Because Sam Winchester was John Winchester's son and Dean Winchester's brother… he was much more than Sam, and he owed his small fractured family much more than to die in a bloodied heap in an abandoned warehouse at the hand of some fucking shadow. No Winchester would die that way. Not now. Not ever.

He kept quietly reciting, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He could not see the entity, but he knew it was near. Waiting. Watching. It unnerved him, forced him to stutter the words, mess up the pronunciation. When he could tolerate it no more, he gingerly rolled onto his back. The bulky construction helmet knocked softly against the concrete floor. As he had guessed, the dark malevolence hovered over him, but it was what lay nestled in the velvet darkness that shot fear through his heart. Glass glinted, a five inch triangular shard, the edge bloodied. His lips parted. He tensed to shimmy away, but again it pinned him down, held his head still and as the shard of glass sliced down toward his face, Sam regretted his damned curiosity.

The glass shard sliced cleanly, almost surgically, and Sam barely felt the incision. Warm blood splashed though, and Sam knew the cut was deep and long across his cheekbone. The entity had opened a physical portal to his body, his mind… his psychic power. Burning then preceded the intense explosion of pain through his mind. Sam went rigidly tense as the onslaught began. As it drew on, Sam lost the physical battle against the pain but instead of losing consciousness, his awareness shifted. He became a witness to the battle of his psychic power. Energy against energy. Pulsating morbid darkness against a lighter, brighter, rapidly pounding light that charged and buzzed, soothing yet inherently strong. It pushed against the encroaching darkness, shouldering it out. The battle was over relatively quickly, and Sam was aware when the entity stood down and retreated. He had held it off. He had won, but there was no victory. Because now he would die.

He whimpered as his consciousness shifted back and with it came the overwhelming pain. The brief reprieve made the shift back even crueler and Sam twisted and cried soundlessly, forced to still as the pain intensified. The air shifted, darkened and Sam was forcefully struck, propelled across the concrete floor in a tangle of bloodied limbs. He mercifully blacked out.

Street after street, avenue after avenue, Missouri Mosely cruised each one, scanning and searching for the jet black Chevy Impala. She knew that the boys had gone to the east side of Lawrence, most likely the industrial district, but though that narrowed things down, it did not narrow it enough. She also knew that she was running out of time.

Ten minutes earlier, she had reached Dean by phone. He had sounded winded, scared and he had been curtly brief, giving nothing away. Missouri recognized the self-sacrificing tone that was so purely Winchester and it had chilled her. She had pressed harder, and expected him to deny her any indication… but then he had quietly given her a hint. In reflection, that had scared her the most. Dean clearly did not want her involved, but he did want her to at least have a chance of finding them. Eventually. Which meant he doubted their chances of survival.

As the minutes moved on and she expanded her search, Missouri's fear grew. Street after street, the traffic becoming less with every passing mile. The warehouse district emptier, more deserted. If the boys were in this area, and things went wrong for them and they could not call for help, then they would be on their own. No passing Good Samaritan who may clue in and offer assistance. No one. Missouri's anxiousness grew and she tensed to press the accelerator harder, then held back. Her gaze unwilling shifted to her hands, to the darkened stains against her skin, the evidence of Marcus' fate. Why she had touched him, she would never know, there had been no hope. No chance.

Now the boys faced off against the very same thing that had slit Marcus' throat without warning and without regret. She shifted her gaze up to the quiet streets, the darkening avenues. Blood red fingers of the setting sun lit the sky ahead and she stiffened against the beautiful yet foreboding sight. She glanced down at the phone on the seat beside her, but did not pick it up. It was pointless. The boys were no longer answering. Maybe they no longer could.

She tightened her grip on the wheel and refocused her attention, forcibly shifting the bitter thoughts to the side. She would find them and they would be unharmed. There was no other acceptable alternative. No Winchester was expendable, but especially not the two youngest members of the tragically haunted family that she had adopted as her own.

Sam regained consciousness with a start. He still lay on the warehouse floor, the concrete cold and hard. He trembled violently, his teeth chattering. Blood filled his mouth but he was too weak to spit it out, so he swallowed, nauseated by the coppery slide down his throat. He blinked, but could not see the entity within his small field of vision and he dared not move to expand it. His eyes slipped closed and he lay quietly before the Latin verse nudged at him. He had to continue, and he did, breathily soft.

The incantation bit off as darkness enveloped him, the cold, dense mass of the entity. Sam's eyes jolted open. He was being moved, cradled, his shattered left leg supported in an obscenely tender embrace. Sam cried out anyway, then bit down to stifle another scream. He struggled to comprehend the shifts in sensation and tensed as the floor moved away. It was lifting him. Raising him toward the ceiling. It moved with a quiet determined calm that unnerved Sam. He pushed against it with his uninjured hand and tried to twist away. The pain of broken bones didn't reach him, the burst of adrenalin, of terror of what was now coming, was an effective anesthetic.

Deleo.

The single Latin word slid through the young hunter's mind, pressing him, begging him to utter it. The last word of the ritual. Sam's vocal cords squeezed shut, the bitter urgency to release the word denying him the voice to do so. His heart jack hammered. He was now at least eight foot off the floor, still gently held, cradled in a throbbing, pulsing, bitterly dark embrace. He licked his lips, trembling with the need to finish this.

Cold cinched around one wrist, drawing his uninjured hand away from his body. Sam grappled to break free, grunting as the cradled embrace dropped away without warning. His body went into freefall, pulled up short by his wrist. He screamed then breathlessly sobbed as gravity pulled and stretched. He couldn't breathe and his vision blackened. He fought to regain control, to get some air into his lungs but pain denied him everything.

It paused again, and Sam gasped raggedly, his head spinning as he shallowly sucked in oxygen. As he regained some control over his tortured body, he wondered if the entity pitied him. He doubted it. More than likely it was weakening from its extended out of host excursion and the near completion of the exorcism. Regardless of the motive, or cause, its hesitation gave Sam an opening, a chance. "Deleo," he breathed, and the pronunciation was perfect.

Everything grew quietly still. An uneasy calm. Sam raised his head and blinked the blood from his eyes. He clenched his fist, tried to break free. If it dropped him, he would not have far to fall. But it would still hurt like hell with the numerous injuries he already had. But he would live. He would find Dean and it would be okay. He relaxed and another second ticked past.

He felt the change a heart-beat before it happened. And his eyes widened in shocked understanding. He tensed to struggle, but was not given a chance. His body jolted as the ignited air sprang back, pulled taut, leaving the wounded boy painfully hanging by one wrist before he was flipped, spun and thrown. The recoil lashed through Sam, grinding broken bones, splattering blood and slamming him into unconsciousness long before his body hit into the far brick wall.

End Chapter Eleven

Hey all, thanks so much to those who are personally reviewing. I hope I've replied to you all, if not then I will. Your words mean so very much! You guys keep me motivated and keep me writing when I nudge up against burn-out. I'm eager to get this story finished and it's taking longer than I had thought. I'm still putting my heart and soul into it… which is probably why I'm feeling so drained. But I am really keen to get to the end. And there is an end… trust me, it's all plotted out… it's just writing it that gets exhausting (exciting, but tiring). Anyway, hope you enjoyed. :-)