Warning:- this chapter contains spoilers for the season 1 episode Faith.
Chapter 2:- Leave
Dean had been hurt before, many times. In his line of work it was an occupational hazard, from childhood he'd had more than his share of knocks. He'd been stabbed, cut, slammed into walls, joints had sprained, bones had broken. He'd even been shot once, but he couldn't ever remember pain like this. The initial dig into the soft flesh of his lower back sent sparks of fire that whited his vision, and on its own drew his breath, but then the claw raked with deliberate slowness up towards his shoulder, giving the nerve endings maximum time to screech their distress as they were torn apart, and he screamed because it was his only release from the agony that tore away his thoughts, and severed any other link with the world save the pain. It took forever for the gouging to stop, for the slow deliberate movement to end, before he could finally draw another breath into aching lungs
He opened his eyes just as his knees buckled, and he dropped to them, barely leaning backwards in time to prevent a headlong dive into the concrete. He winced as new agony flared at the jarring impact, and he hugged both arms across his chest as though that would somehow relieve the white hot pain.
"Dean!" Sam moved forward, forgetting for the moment his own injuries as adrenaline crashed through his system. He knew what it was like, knew the intensity of the clawing pain, and would much rather have continued to suffer it himself than to watch it happen to his brother. He dropped to his own knees, gripping Dean's shoulders to help support the older man as he waited for the semi-glazed eyes to regain their focus.
Dean stared as the blurring image slowly formed into his brother's concerned features, felt the strength in the grip that held him, and, for a moment, just a fleeting moment, he was glad that his brother was there. He needed. . . no. . .he wanted the strength that their shared bond gave him, and for just that moment there was a warmth that spread through him and made everything seem OK. Their gazes met and Sam's expression calmed just a little, and for just that moment he knew his brother felt it too.
It couldn't last.
The warmth was chased away by icy tendrils of fear and despair as reality intruded, and Dean knew that that was the last moment of true contact he could afford to share with his younger brother. Sam had to leave, however much he wanted, and oh God he really wanted it. However much he wanted his brother to stay there with him, to keep him company through this, through his. . .through his own death, he couldn't put him through that. He couldn't have him stay and watch this thing tear him to pieces. Couldn't, wouldn't.
He drew in a deep breath, forced one of his lopsided cocky smiles to his lips. "Damn but that hurts like a bitch don't it." He stated, with the best fake cheerfulness he could manage. "Now if you could just get that death grip off my shoulders, I might be able to get myself up off the ground."
"Dean," Sam growled in frustration. He knew what his brother was trying to do and he wasn't going to let him. He wasn't just going to shrug this off. Wasn't going to shrug him off.
"Dude," Dean said looking meaningfully at the white knuckled grip that Sam still clutched him with. "Seriously, you're going to leave indents if you don't let go." He met Sam's gaze again and in a much quieter voice added. "It's hurting me."
The ambiguity of the last comment wasn't lost on either of them. Hurting because he was physically holding so hard? Hurting because emotionally it represented a link that Dean knew he'd have to sever? Or did the 'it' refer to the Demon, that would be back for more and more pain until there was nothing left, maybe all three?
Sam let go, but he did not move away, instead he stood and shifted to Dean's elbow helping him back to his feet. Again Dean appreciated the strength that allowed his younger sibling to even try to help him. He was swaying slightly himself, and still he was there to steady Dean as he pushed to his feet. They stood for a moment regaining their equilibrium.
"Boy, we're in great shape aren't we." Dean stated as he now helped Sam as his brother swayed backwards. "C'mon," he started moving, making for the stone table, the only structure in the otherwise bare room that could offer either of them any support. It was that or admit defeat and sink back down to the floor.
Sam moved slightly slower than Dean and got a chance to look at the long wound that swept up his brother's back, oozing a steady trail of blood down his shirt. He looked down at the cuts on his own arms, across his chest, they were much shorter, and god how they'd hurt. He swallowed down the bile as images slid through his memory.
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Dean leaned forward and flicked through the pages. Sam didn't think he'd ever seen him this excited about a book before. Not that this was a proper book, it was more like a journal, more like their father's journal. The pages were uneven, extra pieces had been stuck in or torn out. Some sheets folded open, and there was writing on all of them, uneven ink scrawled across the pages, and sometimes up around the margins.
Sam stood and watched him for a few moments."Do you want some coffee?"
There was no reply as Dean carried on reading and Sam tried not to smile, knowing that his brother would ride him if he behaved like this.
"Hey deaf boy!" Still nothing, "Dean, you don't mind if I borrow the car to go drag racing through town do you?"
This got him a distracted "Hmm"
"Dean!" The louder exasperated tone finally caused his brother to look up. "I asked if you wanted some coffee?"
"Sounds good," Dean replied. "and, if you're volunteering, a burger would be good too I haven't eaten since breakfast."
Sam gave a pained look, "I was only volunteering for coffee ,but I guess the burger joint is just as near." He nodded. " Enjoy your reading," but Dean seemed to already be engrossed back in the journal. Sam let out an exasperated sigh and headed for the door. He was just pulling the handle when Dean spoke.
"Oh, and Sam,"
Sam turned to look at his brother.
"You take my car drag racing and you'll be buying me four new tyres."
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"So," Dean spoke round a mouthful of burger, "This guy documented everything we already found out and more. He was more geeky for details than you." He grinned as the comment earned him a pointed stare from his younger sibling. "Anyway, the Demon, whatever it is, nobody really saw it then either, first appeared in 1673, since then its been appearing every 111 years."
"And each time it claims eleven victims," Sam interjected.
Dean nodded. "Captain William Stenson, the guy who wrote the journal, was here in 1895 researching witchcraft, when he stumbled across the information about the Demon and realised that the murders happening in the town were related to the ones in 1784. He then found the link in the parish records to 1673, but its what he found out about the 1784 murders that really interested him."
Dean paused to take another bite of his burger forcing his younger brother to ask. "And that would be?"
"An alleged witch called Hegarty, who claimed she could control who the Demon came for?"
"Claimed?"
"Yes, she apparently stopped it part way through an attack on one of the village elders by diverting its attack to a travelling salesman. She then wrote out several copies of the spell and sold the scrolls to the highest bidders. Didn't do her much good though."
"Why not?" Sam asked, taking a swig from his coke.
"The Demon claimed her as its eleventh victim. Reports claim that her body was the most mutilated of all, and that it took her longest to die."
Sam shook his head "You know as well as I do that that sort of folklore is just designed to scare people.
Dean stuffed the last of his burger in his mouth and chewed it a little before replying. "Could be? On the other hand, forcing a Demon to leave a victim alone might just really piss it off."
"Anything in there about what we're actually dealing with other than just 'a demon?'"
"Nope, no one ever saw more than a few wispy shadows, and the victims were always carried away to be killed," Dean wiped the burger sauce from his mouth before snagging a chip. "but it does tell us how to kill it."
Sam stopped midway through picking up some salad on his fork and stared at his brother. "How?" he asked slightly incredulously.
"It says the source of its power is a crystal, and that if you destroy the crystal before it's claimed its eleventh victim then you will, and I quote here, 'render it harmless for all eternity'"
"So all we have to do is find the crystal?" Sam asked.
Dean nodded again, "Could be easier than that. Stenson found the crystal but it took him three years after the eleventh victim was killed so he put it 'somewhere safe' for the next time the Demon emerged and left the journal as a clue to its whereabouts."
"So all we have to do is follow the clues in the journal."
"Find the crystal and fry its ass before it claims victim number 11."
Sam sat back thoughtfully chewing on some lettuce. "So, if you had one of those spells you couldn't actually stop it from killing, you had to divert it to another victim and condemn someone else to death."
"Yep, that's right," Dean replied, a shadow passing behind his eyes that Sam did not immediately understand.
"I don't think that I could condemn someone else to save. . ." his voice trailed off as Dean blinked and looked away, and at that point his stupidity hit him like a sledgehammer. That's exactly what they had done with Le Grange. Dean had only survived because another had died, but he hadn't known, neither of them had known and there was nothing he could. . . Damn how could he have been so stupid as to open up that barely healed wound. He considered apologising but Dean broke the silence first.
"'Bout the only thing you could do is give up your own life," Dean stated softly. "From the report it seems like using one of the scrolls is a death sentence anyway." He turned back to meet his brother's gaze, whatever emotions had been aroused were firmly shuttered away again, the shadow gone. "And that's one nasty way to kill yourself, pissing off a demon that takes pleasure in torturing its victims to death."
"You think any of the scrolls still exist."
Dean smiled at him. "What you mean apart from this one here," he said opening out a piece of folded yellowed parchment."
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Dean carefully brushed the last fragments of burnt yellowed parchment from the table before turning to rest against it. His breathing hitched slightly as he turned to face his brother, his eyes doing a rapid sweep from head down, assessing the various welts and cuts across his brothers arms and chest. Guilt gripped him. He should have abandoned the search for the crystal sooner, he could have spared his brother all of that pain, but he'd been so sure that he knew where it was. That he could stop this thing once and for all, so sure. He tried to block out the memory of running down the stone hallway as his brother screamed, of his shaking hands and even more shaky voice as he lit the candle and recited the spell as his brother screamed. "I'm sorry," he stated softly. Sorry that he hadn't been there sooner, initiated the trade sooner. Sorry that he'd done it at all, that he'd condemned his brother to live with the knowledge that he'd traded his life for him. The Dichotomy of guilt twisted his gut into random painful contortions.
Sam fought back the anger. Anger at the choice his brother had made. Anger at the Demon that would return soon to torture him. Anger at his own failings that had brought them to this point. For all his smarts and college education he hadn't been able to figure out the damn clues, hadn't been able to. . . .
"Sam, you have to leave."
For a moment the words didn't register and then Sam was searching his brother's expression for some sign that he was joking. He couldn't seriously expect him to. . ."No," he stated firmly. They'd already had this discussion. He wasn't going anywhere, whatever happened from this point he would be there for his brother just as Dean would be there for him.
"Sam Please," Dean tried again. "You don't have to watch this. I don't want you to. . ."
"You don't want me to," the words erupted like flames, venting some of the pent up anger. "Well guess what Dean you don't get a choice in this. You haven't left me with one. You don't get one either." He paused, drew in a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his fists. His tone softened. "I'm staying with you," he stated quietly. "You don't have to go through this alone." He did not give voice to the final thought that passed through his mind, did not really want to acknowledge it, could not accept it, despite the inevitiblity of the outcome. Tears welled in his eyes. 'you don't have to die alone.'
TO BE CONTINUED. . .