Chapter Six
DamnDamnDamn, was the litany in Dean's head as Sam set Ruby's knife upon the table, then came close again with the angel blade in his hand. I reallyreallyreally don't want to do this.
Because he didn't. He wasn't truly a martyr, no matter what his brother believed; or a masochist, either, because he neither desired nor liked pain, and he sure as hell didn't get off on it. Oh, he was happy to run into a burning building—been there, done that; hey, saved my brother—and crashing through doors with guns blazing provided a powerful rush, and he had never denied the outright elation found in ganking a monster or a demon via extremely violent means. He was a violent man.
And then he remembered the hospital, and Sam's pointed, almost desperate plea asking when they had forgotten how to do their jobs, with an unspoken 'the right way' stuck on the end of it.
Kill first, question later, Sam accused.
And Dean couldn't deny the impulse was powerful. It was a shortcut. Lives depended on it, including his own and Sam's. It saved innocent people more quickly.
It also killed some as well.
When had that become his MO? Because once upon a time, it wasn't.
Sam had declared, 'If we don't change—right now—all of our crap is just gonna keep repeating itself. '
When was the last time they had tried to exorcize a demon to preserve the fragile human victim trapped inside the possessed vessel?
Hell, Sam had even tried to save Crowley by turning him human. Damn near succeeded, too. Would have, had Dean not stopped him to—and there it was again—save his life.
Saving people. That's what they had done. That was how they were raised. The family business. But then things got complicated. John Winchester sold his soul to save his eldest. Dean did it to save the youngest. Sam, for all his protestations that he wouldn't save Dean under certain circumstances, had let that conviction fall by the wayside in the wake of the Mark of Cain.
And Sam, once again resurrecting the high-and-mighty, self-righteous little prick he often was in adolescence, had taken, admitted, responsibility. 'I unleashed a force on this world that could destroy it . . . to save you. And I'd do it again. In a second, I would do it again. And that is what I'm talking about. This isn't on you. It is on us. We have to change.'
Now, as Sam stepped close with the angel blade, Dean couldn't help himself. "So, what's dead should stay dead?"
He saw the startlement in his brother's eyes, the brief, baffled withdrawal. "What?"
"You said we have to change. And maybe we do. Maybe I should have buried you—burned you—after Cold Oak. Maybe you should have killed me in that hallway out there—" Dean thrust out a hand to indicate the door leading into the corridor beyond, "—when I was a demon. Hell, you had the knife at my throat. You could have done it easily enough."
Sam shook his head. "I didn't have to. Cas was right there."
"But maybe you should have," Dean emphasized with great clarity. "Because if you had, if you'd taken me off the board, the Darkness would still be locked away."
"Dean—"
"Which means your statement that we have to change is conditional." Dean quirked a quick, unamused smile. "My little brother, the politician: always flip-flopping on the issues."
From the trap, Crowley interrupted in tones of elaborate boredom. "Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Blah blah blah. Do you have any idea how repetitive you boys are? It's like a bad telenovela. 'I'll die; no I'll die. I have to save you; no, I have to save you.' But just now the end of the world is nigh—again—and it's probably best you set aside your brother melodrama until after you've saved it—again—and then you can drive the Impala off the edge of the Grand Canyon and die as happy, photogenic martyrs . . . after the kiss, naturally." Crowley huffed a laugh. "And that makes Sam our Thelma, because she's the tall one, and Dean the trigger-happy Louise. Great casting, don't you think? Good chemistry is everything."
"Jesus," Dean muttered. "A half-hour with this guy in my head may be worse than forty years in hell." He tapped a forefinger against the tattoo over his heart. "Come on, Sam—let's gets this done so I can puke out that mofo's red smoke sooner rather than later."
"Badass photogenic martyrs," Sam gritted between his teeth, setting the blade tip against his brother's flesh, "and I do not flip-flop, dammit. I've saved you every time it's come up."
"And that's what—ow! Holy crap!" Dean slapped his hand against the tattoo. "Man, that hurts like hell. Burns one instant, freezes the next." He turned his palm upright, peered at the blood, screwed his face into an expression of pain and distaste as he glared at his brother. "Yeah, I can see why that does a number on demons and angels alike."
"You can get re-inked after this is over," Sam observed, inspecting his handiwork, "close up the broken lines." He stepped back, still grasping the blade, and looked at Crowley. "Now what? I don't exactly recall what happened when you went into my head. I was still me, right? And he'll still be him?"
"Oh, you were mostly Gadreel at that moment," Crowley pointed out. "He wasn't particularly happy about the plan; did the usual and threatened your life. But to give you a brief summary: I'll pop into your brother, we'll go find some clothes more appropriate to a social call in hell—Squirrel, you're a fine figure of a man, but wandering around in boxers, despite all the admiration I'm sure it would inspire, might make it difficult to maintain a low profile—and then we'll go see our friendly neighborhood Reaper and sing her a little song."
"Again?" Dean asked. "Once wasn't enough?"
"I think she was particularly fascinated by your ability to sing an old folk song completely off-key," Crowley observed. "I've got something better in mind this time."
Dean felt the flutter of trepidation amping up in his belly. Sweat stung his armpits, stippled his upper lip. "Sooo, now what—" And then as scarlet smoke erupted from Crowley's mouth, Dean only had time to say "Oh crap—" before his head fell back and his mouth dropped open and Crowley punched his way down his throat.
He was . . .
He was . . .
"Dean?"
He was . . .
"Dean—hey—"
No words no words no words
"Dean!"
Hands.
Sam's.
He twitched, caught himself, then . . .
The cold hardness of cement.
And he roused enough, just enough, to realize he had fallen, was kneeling: hands pressed flat, fingers splayed and rigid; arms locked at elbows to keep himself from doing a face-plant onto the floor.
He heard breathing.
Loud.
Broken.
Breath was choked out on a shudder that took him, that shook him, that wracked his bent, shivering body.
Inside his head he found no words, only a long, gasped, broken denial.
Nothing issued from his mouth but stuttered exhalations.
"Dean!
He felt a hand closing on his upper arm, closing and gripping, pulling at him as if to help him rise. He reached up, grabbed onto Sam's tee, bunched it up in a clenched fist and clung to cloth.
His eyes felt too large for his head. The pressure was intense. Were they exploding?
He tried to speak, succeeded only in making sounds that didn't even approach coherency. Just syllables and grunts and gasps and blurted appeals Sam couldn't understand.
His lips were numb. His jaw cracked as he moved it, as he tried repeatedly to string together words that made sense.
Sam was swearing and calling down maledictions upon Crowley's empty head. "—I'll kill that son of a bitch. I'll burn his damn bones. I'll dump the ashes into a cement mixer." His hand tightened on Dean's arm. "Come on, come on, let's get you up. I'll dump him out of the chair, put you in it."
Dean yanked at Sam's tee. "Nnnnno . . . trrap. Leave—" And he ran out of words again, because everything was a jumble inside his head. He could barely string two thoughts together. He thumped his fist against his brother's chest, used eyes stretched wide to make the desperate appeal.
Sam stared. Eyebrows shot up, and he nodded understanding. "Okay, he stays in the trap; I gotcha. But let's get you off your knees, at least, sit you against the wall. This . . . I don't think this is right. Is it? I've never seen any host react like this. Dean—come on—"
Sam levered him up. He wobbled there a moment, balance tentative. He spread bare feet, straightened shaky knees. Slammed his eyes shut, kept them closed so tightly fireworks went off behind his lids, and then blinked himself back again.
Dungeon.
Crowley—or his body—slumped in the chair.
Sam standing close, so close, holding him upright, keeping him on his feet. The expression in his eyes was undeniably afraid. His face was stiff with it.
Dean nodded jerkily. He bobbed his head on a loose neck, thumped his brother again, swallowed hard, hard again; then blew out a series of choppy, huffed breaths. "—'kay—"
"Yeah?" Sam stared into his face, eyes livid with intensity. "You in there?"
"—unghh—"
"Sit down. Come on, down here against the wall, okay?"
He felt it behind his shirtless back, the chill of stone against bare skin, even his ass, through the thin fabric of his boxers. It was easier to allow the wall do the work. Dean leaned into it, let it have him, and slid down to the floor, doubling up his legs so that his knees stuck straight up in the air. He hooked an elbow against a knee and clamped one hand over the dome of his skull.
"HolyshitJesusMaryandJosephMotherofGodlimeymotherfuckingcocksuckingsonofabitch."
Sam squatted in front of him. "Well . . . that's English, at least. And it sounds like you. When you're, like, really wound up." He patted the hand Dean clasped to his skull. "You gonna live?"
Dean shifted, set a second elbow against his other knee, clasped his skull two-handed as if it might explode off his shoulders. "Gaaahhhhhh—"
"Hey, man . . . look at me. C'mon, dude. Look me in the eye. Up here, okay?" Sam patted his hand again, with greater fervor, demanding focus. "Hey, hey. Look at me, Dean. Lift your head and look at me." Sam's voice frayed. Now he slapped the hand. "Look at me, dammit! Let me see . . . " He ducked his head down, leaned in. "I need to see . . ."
And Dean knew then why this was asked so very urgently.
Eyes.
Eyes.
Sam wanted, needed, to look into his eyes and see what lived in his brother.
What was on the Dean Winchester menu today?
Green eyes? Black eyes? Red eyes?
Dean nodded jerkily, swallowed, met Sam's gaze, locked onto it . . . and saw the baby, the boy, the man; all that Sam had ever been, everything he was; and what he could yet become. He saw the brilliant steadfastness of his brother's soul.
'I unleashed a force on this world that could destroy it . . . to save you. And I'd do it again. In a second, I would do it again.'
And he would. No matter what he said otherwise. No matter that he wished otherwise.
Dean managed a smile. He stretched out a trembling arm, hooked a weak hand over his brother's shoulder, closed his fingers, then slid the hand up and briefly clasped the firm, warm neck. "Sammy."
Sam, shaken, stared back. Something moved in his eyes: understanding; acknowledgment; and an almost unbearable relief. Then a dimple twitched. "Okay."
"Gotta go," Dean murmured. "Gotta get this done . . . get this asshole out of my head . . . 'cept he's not . . . he's not just in my head, y'know. He's—everywhere."
"Everywhere?" Sam asked blankly, shifting away so that, even crouched, he wouldn't loom.
"Fingernails. Nose hairs. Freckles. Y'know . . ." He made an indistinct, all-encompassing gesture when he ran out of words.
"Oh," Sam said, on a slight recoil. "That's kind of—disgusting—"
Dean scrubbed at his face with hands, blinked hugely, worked his jaw from side to side, rolled his head to crack knots. "Crap. Haul me up, Sammy. I think he wants me to get a move on. He wants to . . . or no, maybe it's me . . ." He let Sam lever him back onto his feet. "Nah, it's me. I gotta pee. Then it's off to see the Wizard." And he winced, as memory was a gut-punch. He hesitated, found his brother's eyes again. Finally said, "I miss Charlie."
Sam's face slackened in shock. He swallowed, nodded a little. "Yeah."
Dean looked past his brother to the vessel in the chair. Black suit and shirt, purple tie, freshly-shined shoes with no hint of sulfur on them. The eyes were closed, but a hint of a smile curved the lips. What had lived in that vessel now lived in his.
And he definitely wanted to hurl.
"Well," Dean said finally, fighting back the impulse. "I guess you can bring your laptop in and watch a vid, or something."
Sam's tone was exceedingly dry. "Yeah. Adventures in Bodysitting."
Dean slanted him an appreciative glance and grinned, quirked his brows. Heard himself say, "Well done, Moose."
And thought, Oh crap.
~ tbc ~