Caught in the endless repetition of dodge-duck-whirl-fire, Dean is throwing everything he has at the oncoming legions. Every misguided emotion becomes a bullet through the head of an enemy; every irrational fear a slice from a thrice-blessed blade. He's a whirlwind of fury and hatred and possessed misery, obliterating everything in his path with little discrimination. The other hunters know to stay out of his way. He catches a glimpse of the tenacious Jo, currently kicking two captors in the faces while struggling against the grip of a third. Effortlessly he picks them off, earning a nod of thanks and nothing more. They have their own priorities now, and if there ever could have been something between them, it is gone, never to be recovered. He looks for Sam and Marie; Jo points behind him. His own nod of thanks is nearly lost in his zeal.
Sam's powers, once a source of terror and uncertainty, are coming to a positive fruition. The telekinesis is proving useful in a pinch, though draining, and his visions pass with more detail and much less pain. In a recent – and hastily developed – addition to his potency, he exchanges brief but informative thoughts with Marie when he can, who is facing her own attackers elsewhere on the battlefield. They beam snippets of warnings, updates, anything useful about the battle or surroundings, and hope it helps. Sam seems a superman, a colossus on the field, taking every threat out faster than any of the others on their side. The rest of the psychics are congregated behind him, manipulating attackers, pushing people out of the way, and screaming unintelligibly – presumably to distract the psychics on the other side. Dean makes his way to Sam's side, taking advantage of his little brother's protection to reload his guns.
"How does it look?" Dean asks curtly. Sam's jaw is squeezed so tightly shut Dean's afraid he might break it.
"Not good. Nobody has seen him yet. We had so little time to strategize – Dean, we might lose." Dean looks him straight in the face and claps his shoulder.
"Not an option," he says, and then he is away, back in the routine of dodge-duck-whirl-fire. He cleaves a rough path through the fire and the hatred and the magic, headed for Missouri.
The stream of the enemy seems endless. All over the field, the place so many men fought and bled and died over a century before, demons are roaring. The spells Marie wove to capture them are working, holding them powerless, but the screams give the others more reason to fight. So much of this battle is wrong, Dean thinks as he shoots another enemy. So much of it has to do with evil, hatred, revenge. The battlefield will be dangerous after dark for ages afterward.
The irony of this killing field hits him in full force; he paid a little attention to the history books John bought him. A century and a half ago, two sides of one country met here. Now, the psychics are fighting each other, one side headed by a witch and the other by a demon. It's sick. This land should never have been fought on again, should never have been used for this evil purpose. It almost makes him retch.
But there is no time for that as he meets Missouri, camped out under a mostly hidden tree, tending the sick. He asks a silent question and she nods, pressing a sachet of herbs to an injured shoulder.
"Most everyone will be fine. These vests are gonna save their lives," she says slowly, deliberately. "And Dean?" He looks at her expectantly. "If ever you were lookin' for a chance to curse, this would be it. Now get on and check with that lady of yours." He's long past embarrassment for any secrets she reads from him, but he shoots her a familiarly annoyed look before turning towards Marie, who is standing on a tall outcropping nearby. He makes good time jogging over the open ground, taking advantage of a relatively clear back road. It's as he's looking back in Missouri's direction that he sees the demon, standing in the shadows.
He's gathering energy, eyes focused on Marie. Dean surges forward, his eyes, too, on the lovely witch. She is chanting incessantly, watching the trapped demons rage in their cages. She's going to get rid of them, he realizes, hearing the Latin leave her tongue. And then he understands. She's seen the yellow-eyed demon. They're in a race to see who can finish the spell first. She's going to sacrifice herself to save the rest. Dean waits until the last word leaves her lips, until fifty simultaneous screams rend the air, until every demon is back in hell, until their host bodies crumple to the grass. Every demon but one.
Dean lets his final sight be beautiful Marie, dirt and blood staining her face as he leaps in front of the demon's attack. Her eyes lock on his as he falls, and he sees the terror and the trust and the thanks before he blacks out from the pain.