AN: One French dragon coming right up! I took some liberties with its appearance to make it scarier.
The next chapter is mostly written so it should be up soon (I hope).
Shazza: Yay! I'm glad you're enjoying the story! I am kind of worried that the angst to action ration isn't right. LOL I love what you said about Dean's radar in overdrive – that says it so perfectly.
Bell1408: Sorry for the cliffie! And this one too…I update when I have the opportunity and I'm really hoping I'll be able to add another chapter no later than tomorrow.
Timelady66: There haven't been too many cliffies in this story…but I'm a sucker for them. Thanks for reading anyway!
sfaulkenberry: Bobby did tell Dean to go with his strengths! hehe I also feel like John didn't interfere too much in brotherly messing around, knowing that Dean would never seriously hurt Sam, though that's just an opinion, of course.
Stormy: Ah, thank you. Your comments are so kind (as always!) they just make me so tickled! I do think John was more paternal than we got a chance to see on the show. We know he's highly intelligent, and that the boys are empathetic (usually!) and have a very strong sense of family. That says to me that John instilled at least some of that. And yes, who wouldn't want a brother like Dean? Except maybe when he's using annoyance as his weapon of choice. LOL
radpineapple: Oops...sorry! But I'm thrilled that you like the story and agree with the characterizations, and don't find the angst to be over the top.
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Sam checked over his weapons, the Camus quote rattling around his brain: what is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.* That was his theory on hunting, but he lacked the mental capacity to focus on both physical preparation and emotional angst, so he put his heavy thoughts aside.
He had a handgun and a rifle, both loaded with consecrated rounds that had been soaked in holy water, and more of the treated ammo in his pockets. He also carried his long knife, and an acacia spear rested next to him. Both had been soaked too. He knew all of the weapons should cause damage to the tarasque, though nothing but the spear would do enough to make a difference, probably. It was possible shooting it would, but he wasn't sure.
He wasn't afraid, though. He probably should be, but his only worry was for his family. He hoped, maybe even prayed, that they wouldn't be injured by the tarasque. He knew his death would hurt them deeply, and he regretted that. Yet he couldn't stop believing that they would be better off without him. The thought cut. Things had been much easier when he was numb, before Dean had broken through his lethargy. Sam knew everything Dean had done was to try to help him, and he couldn't resent him for it.
Under Dad and Dean's watchful eyes, he scaled the southern side of the small cliff, careful of all the weapons he was carrying. He'd double checked that the others were carrying only treated weapons too. He'd even checked the ammunition in their guns, but neither of them had commented on it. Sam gave the signal that he was in place and let out a short breath of relief to be away from the Winchester interrogation squad.
Relief and sadness, too. He wished he could have given Dean a hug without raising suspicion. Dad too. But hugs would have set off every worry meter the two had. They'd probably have had his head CAT-scanned or something.
The thought brought a welcome smile, and Sam allowed the melancholy mixture of love and sadness anchor him to the present. He stretched out full length on a reasonably flat space he'd mapped out when he'd scouted the cliff. From there, he had a perfect long-distance view of the narrow lakeside clearing below, and was relieved to see the shadows of his dad and brother move to the far north, to Sam's right. Naturally, they didn't know that the tarasque likely couldn't fit its whole body there, and would almost certainly emerge to the south if at all.
Sam heard the small clicking noise that signaled that Dean and Dad were in place. Sam didn't shift a thing except for his eyes, watching the lake like he was supposed to even though he really wanted to keep an eye on his family. They were watching each other's backs, he reminded himself. Stick to the plan. Dad's no dummy, said Dean's voice in Sam's mind. It was a refrain he'd heard often when he was new to hunting and impatient to move in but had been told to wait.
Sam would stick to the plan tonight. His own plan.
To Sam's left, behind a freestanding boulder on the southwest apex of the ledge, there was a fissure in the body of the cliff. It was narrow, but so was Sam. He had inspected it as much as he could without actually going into it, and he knew it descended at a shallow angle and terminated in a cave that opened facing the water. Right where he expected the tarasque would come to the shore. His family might think he was safely out of the way, fifteen feet above where the action took place, but the truth was, he'd come out at the monster's feet.
As Sam watched the quiet water, Dad stepped out from the shadows. He fit the victim profile closer than either of the other two, so he was the bait, despite Dean's objections. Like Dad ever listened to objections when it came to hunting, Sam thought, then dismissed the thought as uncharitable. Dad was lousy at some things, but he was an amazingly gifted hunter with a great deal of experience, and it made sense that the boys should defer to him. It was just too bad he thought that unquestioning deference should extend to the rest of their lives.
Sam frowned at himself. Why was he being so bitter? He and Dad usually drove each other crazy, but they'd also die for each other. And Dean…
Before Sam could complete the thought, he caught a ripple on the water. He swallowed hard but didn't move or make a sound, staring as hard as he could. It was a cloudier night than they'd expected based on the forecast, and at a distance, the dark water blended into the dark sky almost seamlessly.
There. A second ripple appeared, larger and closer to the shore. It felt like destiny was growing closer.
Dad and Dean would be watching the trees – okamis loved to climb and attack from above.
Then Sam saw a ripple so big it was nearly a wave, and he knew it was time. He threw caution to the wind and jumped to his feet. He knew the others would hear him, but it was too late for them to stop him. Then he was shimmying down the slit in the rocks. It was such a tight fit that he tore his shirt at least twice and had to put his arms and the spear above his head a few times, but he made it. Ha! Score one for the "beanpole."
Sam ducked out of the cave just as a heavy-muzzled head broke the surface of the lake just five meters out. Imagining the thing had done nothing to prepare him for its sheer size. A foot with half-meter long claws clutched the shore and heaved. The sight of the monster pulling itself onto land was awesome – but not cool awesome. Terrifying awesome.
The tarasque's skin was black, or close to it. Its face was faintly leonine, but covered in close-fitted scales. Its canines were as long as Sam's forearms. The rest of it was more lizard-like, and overall its body was blocky and long-necked with a spiked carapace on its back. It had six long legs all tipped with those horrific claws. As it pulled the bulldozer-sized body into sight, water streaming off it, Sam realized that if it stood on its back legs, it would be taller than the cliff behind him.
There was yelling and the sound of guns firing from Sam's right, but he didn't hear what they were saying. He was staring into the face of the maneater. The face of the creature that would end it all for him. Almost in a trance at the thought, Sam stared for a long second before he raised his own Taurus and fired up at the dragon's neck. It sort of felt like trying to soak up the ocean with a mop. Except, unlike the bullets that hit the side of the armored body, these actually penetrated, though Sam couldn't see if they did any damage.
The tarasque screamed and scuttled toward Sam faster than such an awkward looking creature should have been able to move. The scream was thin and so high-pitched as to be painful, and Sam drowned it out by firing again. A cloud moved, and suddenly the tarasque was moonlit, its mouth stretching toward Sam and dark blood leaking from the wounds on its neck.
The tarasque reared back, blocking the sight of the moon. Its wide, luminescent eyes locked onto Sam. He knew it would crash down to crush and pin him beneath its front legs, then use its sinuous neck to reach down to guzzle him up. There was a reason most depictions of tarasques showed human legs hanging out of their mouths.
Time held its breath as the dragon's mouth gaped wide, and three things became crystal clear to Sam.
One: Dean and Dad were running as hard as they could, still firing, willing themselves to get between Sam and the monster. They were always ready to get between Sam and monsters, even ones as big this. Even if it meant death for them.
Two: no matter how much hunting felt like it was devouring his hope, his very soul, Sam couldn't destroy his family by taking his life. He loved them so much he owed it to them to keep trying, keep pushing on. He thought about Dad's expression when a poltergeist had thrown Sam down a set of stairs. He thought about Dean turning from rough and tumble tough guy to tender nurse maid every time Sam got so much as a scrape. He thought about a thousand nights of whispering his hopes and fears to his big brother, his hero. He thought about all Dean had done to get him to talk now, and his words as he'd held Sam pinned against the motel room wall. He even thought about that stupid chicken wrap.
Three: He realized that the tarasque's underbelly was as unprotected as its neck.
All of this passed through Sam's mind in a flash, followed swiftly by the thought that his revelation might be too late. Still. Winchesters did not go gently into that good night.* So, knowing he'd never reach the narrow cave behind him before the tarasque could smash and eat him, Sam ran forward three steps, stood up the acacia spear that had somehow made the trip down from the top of the cliff, and braced the end of it in the dirt. He crouched, wrapping both arms around the spear so it would stay upright as the beast's own weight and momentum could cause far more damage than Sam's strength could.
I'm so sorry, Dean, he thought, sorrow lancing through him. I'm so sorry, Dad.
Feet the size of semi-tractor tires smashed into the ground on either side of Sam, knocking him onto his back, and a tearing sensation made him gasp the split second before something struck his head and everything went dark.
* This quote is from Albert Camus' book The Myth of Sisyphus.
* This quote is from the title and first line of a Dylan Thomas poem, Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.
