Chapter title is from song by Howling Diablos.
14
Mean Little Town – Howling Diablos
Dean had always been fond of Elijah's. It was a dive, sure, but there was booze and there was Traci with an i, which was pretty much all he required for a good time. Plus, no one got up in your business or asked too many questions at Elijah's, mostly because Elijah's solution to all disputes was the shotgun he kept behind the bar. Word got around.
Now, looking down that same double barrel and back up into Elijah's demon eyes, his hand tightened around the hilt of the First Blade. Sam had backed up against him, despite the fact he was holding the old donkey bone. There was a little bit of wisdom in that; in this crowd of hunters-turned-demons, there was a 50-50 chance he was the lesser of two evils—at least to Sam.
Crowley's intel had only said Albuquerque, grossly neglecting to mention the unholy mess they would find once they got there. It was damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don't, a demon massacre one way and a hunter massacre the other, killing friend and foe in one untidy blow. This got out, what they did here, their names went straight to the top of the list of "Hunting's Most Wanted", with a ten point alert that would put some of the country's best trackers on their tail.
"Exorcism?" Sam muttered under his breath.
Dean looked at the hunters around him, seeing the bruised faces and blood stains on clothing.
"They won't survive. They made sure of that." He replied shortly. "We're screwed."
Sam huffed out a tight breath, Ruby's knife in his hand. The reluctance radiating off Sam was palpable.
The demon that wore Elijah smiled.
"Frankly, I'm disappointed. I thought you'd be bigger."
A snicker ran around the room.
"At least with arms like the Hulk. A real skull crusher. You don't look so scary to me."
He narrowed his eyes. This brash impudence from a demon that could see him was new. Sam fidgeted behind him, resisting the urge to turn and check for himself. Dean tested the heft of the First Blade in his hand.
He didn't feel any different.
As a quick check, he glared at Elijah-demon, shutting off its voice.
Silence fell on the crowd as Elijah's lips kept moving around soundless insults that came to a halting stop of realization.
Oops.
Dean squeezed. Smoke bubbled reluctantly out of Elijah's mouth. He could see the thing, the scales and fangs, writhing and oozing, digging into Elijah's insides with its claws, twisting in his grip. Arrogant, to think it could fight him. Stupid, to even try.
He grabbed the smoke by the throat and yanked. Elijah dropped to his knees, head rolling back, grotesquely suspended by the smoke boiling out of his mouth. The demon shrieked when the First Blade plunged into it, and the shriek turned into a squeal when he kept pulling, pulling and cutting, splitting it the long way with the bone blade.
Slow cuts. Slow death.
To a man, the crowd around them stepped back.
He looked at the faces ringed around him. Some familiar, some not, black eyes now flashing uniformly with fear.
That was more like it.
"Call Cas." He growled at Sam.
Sam followed his train of thought perfectly, and closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer.
He wasn't angry. This was about making sure things were understood—that these two-bit pissant demons and all the others like them knew their place in the hierarchy of things. He wrenched them squealing from their meatsuits, the Mark on his arm glowing a fiery red in the dimly lit bar, the sound of choking and gagging noisy in the smoky booze filled air. Cut, cut, cut, the First Blade worked its way methodically down the line, severing the twisting cords of smoke with each stroke. When he reached the end of the line, he brought his feet to a standstill, the temptation to keep going an ever-present drumbeat running rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat in the back of his mind. He ought to find that rat bastard Crowley, yank out his innards, and jam the Blade up his sternum for this. Space blurred, the way to Hell, to Crowley's snug little office, opening before him. His foot lifted on the forward step when Sam's voice called sharply from behind him.
"Dean!"
He was slow to turn. He had things to do. Things that made sense, made more sense than staying here, mired in mess after mess, pulling Sammy down with him, down into the bowels of Hell, where all Sam would have were bad choices and worse choices with no fallback next time. And there would be a next time.
"DEAN!" More insistent this time.
He didn't understand why Sam hung on. Hung on so hard when Dean was so clearly lost. He looked at the lifeless bodies sprawled out around them, people they knew, had traded information with, and had traded jibes with, the shrill echo of demon screams still tingling in his ears. He didn't understand why Sam hung on to this—this life—nothing but the promise of pain and more pain for all time to come, nothing to salvage, nothing to save.
A bright flutter at the corner of his eye whirled him around.
Threat.
The First Blade in his hand was pointed at the angel in the room.
Hannah's lieutenant held out both hands, warily, weaponless.
Sam turned towards the newcomer, relief on his face. "Little help."
Sam gestured at the bodies lying around them.
Noah's face was cold as he looked impassively at the dead hunters. "We're not your errand boys, Sam Winchester."
"Yeah?" Dean curled his lip. "I figure you owe us. And I'm calling it in."
The angel turned to him, bright eyes giving him a searching look for a long second. Sam's eyes followed the angel's glance, and Sam stopped. His glance flicked from Dean's eyes to the First Blade in Dean's hand and back again.
"What?" Dean demanded.
"Nothing." Sam's something-nothing had him itching for a mirror. Maybe the horns were just late coming in, like fucked-up wisdom teeth.
Their sidebar was interrupted by Noah moving begrudgingly, clearly having been overruled by someone on angel radio up high. He was working his way around the room, two fingers to foreheads, groggy heads coming up and shaking themselves like wet dogs as he passed by. Noah threw him a final look when he came to Elijah last.
"And we're even."
He nodded curtly. With a flutter of air, Noah disappeared.
"What the hell?"
Sam moved automatically, heading over to help Elijah to his feet. He opened his mouth to stop Sam, but then decided Sam could find out for himself.
Elijah's meaty arm flew out, and Sam landed with a whap back against the bar. Elijah had a little thing about being helped.
"Lay off, boy. I'm just winded. Git your namby-pamby mitts off me before I shoot your ass so full of rock salt you'll be able to ward off demons by coughing."
Sam backed the hell off, both hands up in the air. Sam shot him a wtf-little-warning-maybe? bitchface.
"What happened?"
"Gas leak." Dean's answer was glib.
The old man glowered darkly at him, seeing the old excuse for what it was. Elijah's eyes went to the First Blade still in his hand, shotgun coming up level.
"So it's true."
Sam moved closer to him, hand going back to his own gun.
Dean shrugged, another easy twitch of the shoulders. "You're still alive."
Elijah's hands stayed steady on the shotgun. "Don't you sass me, demon."
He tilted his head and waited, taking his chances. He moved a little bit in front of Sam, getting between Sam and the shotgun barrel, his footsteps loud in the hushed room.
Elijah's eyes narrowed as he watched as he reposition himself. There was a pause as thoughts went through the grizzled eyes. The muzzle of the gun made a small wave in the direction of the door.
"Git. And don't ever come back. Either of you."
It was too quiet. Hunters surrounded them. Twitchy, just-woken-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-a-fight hunters. He could feel eyes on the First Blade, eyes on him, eyes on his head like he had horns. He shuffled a small step towards the door, Sam following with his gun out and cocked.
No one moved. It was like they had some sense of what happened, and where the balance of the scales lay.
They made it to the door and out, quick steps to the Impala, a wake of dust behind them and they were on the road again, heading back to the bunker when Sam spoke.
"You feel okay?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Nothing." There it was again, that something-nothing.
"What?!" His day was not going particularly well. He was going to have a word or six with Crowley when they got back, with Crowley NOT doing any of the talking.
"It's just." And as irritatingly as hell, Sam stopped there.
He waited Sam out.
"You're not doing the demon eyes thing anymore."
Dean blinked his thoughts to a stop. He wasn't sure if that was good news or bad news. He felt the same. He could still do—stuff. On the other hand, Elijah had looked like Elijah, six shades of grumpy with a side of sourpuss. He was vaguely glad he didn't see Elijah, because that would probably have been a fucking mess. Whatever Elijah thought about, he really didn't want to know.
"Huh." Was all he said.