Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly
You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)
Okay, here is the last chapter! Thank you soo much to everyone who has reviewed over the course of this story, I hope you've enjoyed it :) There will be an epilogue coming up – I won't set a definite date for it, but it'll be over the course of the week sometime – and I'll reply to any reviews for this chapter and the epilogue, I know I've been terrible at keeping up with them so far!
Chapter 20
"Mommy? Where are you going?"
Dean's feet froze in place on hearing Kiera's voice. Cramped in the narrow dark hallway, it seemed to echo around them from all angles, and Dean couldn't tell which direction it originated from. In front of him, he could dimly make out the soft slopes of Margaret's shoulders and back. She sagged forward for a second, and then her spine straightened with an audible click of abused vertebrae. She turned bodily to face Dean, but when she spoke it wasn't him her words were directed at.
"Whoever, or whatever, you are, you are not my daughter."
A girlish giggle. "Mommy, don't be silly. Who else would I be?"
From around Margaret's thin body, Dean could see his father raising his gun in one hand, eyes scanning the darkness-shrouded furniture for his target. John took a step forward, away from the open door. It took him into the spill of light coming from the living room, and he stopped there, gaze darting between the bright room and the staircase they'd just descended.
The indecision cost him.
In a rustle of starched fabric, Kiera's small body launched from the shadows under the staircase, her tiny dirty hands closing around John's wrist. She used the leverage to drag John's arm down to her face, biting at the meat of his hand in the same way she would bite into an apple.
Margaret let out a sharp "No!" and threw herself at her daughter's form, her arms wrapping around the little girl's waist. Without hesitating or releasing her hold on John, Kiera shrugged her off like she was an irritating itch. Margaret staggered backwards, losing her footing and landing in a crumpled heap on the stairs
The narrow hallway was working against them; Dean struggled to climb over Margaret's splayed body, banging his shin on a low ridge sticking out of a table in the process. His legs weren't feeling all that steady to begin with – probably something to do with being left tied up for a day without food or water – and, feeling pretty ridiculous considering the current situation, he was forced to pause for a second to try and rub some feeling back into the limb.
His dad yelped as Kiera caught hold of his other hand, forcing him to bend awkwardly at the waist as he tried to fight her off. With a rough twist John managed to wrench his gun arm free; Kiera's weak body was fuelled by demonic power, but it was still only a young child's body, with a child's limited reach.
John's sleeve was soaked through with blood from Kiera's vicious bite, his grip on the gun slipping, but the hold the little girl had on his other arm actually helped, keeping her at a close range. He levelled the gun at her face, finger sliding along the trigger.
"No please don't!" Margaret scrambled to her feet, both arms wrapping around the banister as her feet got tangled in Dean's again. She reached a hand out, her gaze fixed on her child, the gun held inches from Kiera's forehead.
Her reaction made Kiera pause, her eyes focusing on the gun like it was a curious new toy. She blinked slowly, cocking her head and putting on a coy smile. "Are you gonna shoot me, mister?" She pulled at a curl of hair lying over her cheek, stretching it straight and then letting it spring back into place.
John's eyes narrowed to slits, and for a second Dean thought he was actually going to do it, shoot a little girl at point blank range.
So when John used the hand still gripped in Kiera's to swing her around, forcing her backward into the living room, Dean let out a loud breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
The muscles of John's broad back rippled under his shirt, blocking off Dean's view, but there was no gunshot, just a surprised gasp from Kiera. Margaret staggered towards the doorway, trying to shove past John to see her daughter.
"What…" Kiera said, sounding honestly childlike for the first time.
John's body relaxed and he stepped aside, breathing heavily. He glanced back at Dean, then met Margaret's eyes. "It's okay."
Dean took a step forward. Kiera was standing on a knitted throw rug in the middle of the room. There was a coffee table stood on its side, blocking the view of a TV set. John gave him a weary half-smile. "Stopped by here on my way upstairs." He took a step forward, kicking aside a corner of the rug to reveal the edge of a symbol, drawn on the wood floor in black marker. "It's called a Devil's Trap. Get a demon inside one, and it can't escape unless the circle is broken."
Margaret tore her gaze away from her daughter. "Is she…"
"We can exorcise the demon from her." John said. "She'll be okay for now. We can come back for her." After we get Sam,was implied in John's eyes. The force of sheer relief that hit Dean almost brought him to his knees. Finally. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. Finally, they were going to save Sam.
"Dean would never leave me, not without saying something first. So why don't you stop pretending, and tell me what you've done to him?"
It would be a strange sight to anyone walking by; a big black hulk of a truck, an unconscious man slumped inside with blood running in stark lines down his cheek. On the sidewalk beside the truck; a young boy wearing dirty dungarees, a middle-aged woman standing beside the boy with a hand on his shoulder, and Sam, sweating and jittery, probably looking like a junkie fresh out of rehab and in desperate need of a fix, pointing a gun at both of them.
Sam was absurdly grateful no one was walking by.
Missouri took a step towards him, her eyes focused on his face. "Sam, you're confused. The demon is messing with your mind, honey. You have to fight it."
"No." He shook his head, his bangs flying. "I'm not confused, and the demon has been messing with my mind all along. It was you. I figured it out ages ago. What I can't figure out is why. Why bother with all the subterfuge?"
"Sam…"
He cocked the gun before she could say anything else, the click loud in the stillness of the night. "Why? Tell me, or I'll shoot you right now."
Missouri's lips thinned and she closed her eyes for a second, her face turned heavenward like an exasperated mother trying to find the strength to discipline an unruly child. She let out a heavy sigh.
And then unseen bonds caught hold of Sam's wrists, looping tight around his waist and pulling, pinning his body to the side of John's truck. The Colt was plucked from between his fingers, tossed over the fence surrounding Margaret's front lawn. Only a few feet away, and yet impossibly far. His neck was pulled back, bared for the demon, his arms stretched out on either side of the truck's side windows.
Sam's breath caught in his throat, stuttering. His eyes widened in a momentary panic – touching him, someone was touching him, touches he hadn't invited, didn't want, couldn't control – and he almost missed the milky yellow tinge to Missouri's eyes, sliding in place like a crocodile's second eyelid.
"I have my own why to ask you, Sam." She said, and it didn't sound like her voice at all. It was a growl, a deep masculine sound that curled in the air around him like cigarette smoke. "Why must you always make this so difficult? I'm trying to help you. To train you to be what you were made to be." Missouri stepped closer, into his breathing space, her head cocking to one side. A wry smile appeared, quirking one side of her mouth. "This would have been so much easier if you had simply done as you're told instead of asking all these useless questions."
Sam tugged against the force holding him in place; it felt like fighting against the ocean. He was pressed into the body of the truck as if a huge wave had risen up and slammed into him, swallowing him whole. He gritted his teeth, the cords in his neck drawn taut under the pressure. "I'm not gonna be whatever it is you want me to be."
"No?" The demon's smile grew. "I think you are." It clucked Missouri's tongue, shaking its head. "But it looks as if we'll have to do it the hard way. Just remember, I tried to play nice for you, Sam."
Invisible fingers, running over his chest, underneath his clothes, slipping, sliding down his belly, touching him, prodding bluntly at the thin skin there. He threw his head back, gasping as it connected with the roof of the truck with a dull thud. No, no, no. A flash of bared teeth, white in the corner of his vision. Reddened lumpy skin like half-melted wax, on a face that was too familiar. Gareth's face.
"More?" The demon's voice was low and seductive, Missouri's voice, but it wasn't enough to take away the illusion of Gareth, leaning into his body like it belonged to him.
"S-stop it." Sam's tongue felt swollen in his mouth, too clumsy to force out words. "Please."
"You can make it stop, Sam. Just give in." The demon whispered. Sam blinked hard, trying to see past the false images the demon was hiding behind.
But there was only Gareth, and John's truck was cold behind his back. John couldn't help him, Dean couldn't help him. Caleb had already been hurt once trying to protect him from this demon, and now he was lying unconscious behind a thin plate of glass, because of Sam, yet again. Gareth's shaven head moved closer, leaning into him, and no matter how much Sam told himself it wasn't real, those were lips pressing against his jaw, licking up his cheek. The smell of stale beer assaulted Sam, and then that mouth was against his, Gareth's thick wet tongue in his mouth.
Sam?
Gareth's hands were at the button of his jeans, toying with it like he was waiting for an invitation. Like this was the make-out portion of a date. The only date Sam had ever been on was with Dean; his seventeenth birthday. One perfect date.
The scene changed around him like he was having one of his visions. No hands were touching him, and Sam just breathed for a second in utter relief.
But then he took in the new illusion-surroundings, and he wanted to vomit. Because the demon had stolen the memory of his perfect date with Dean, every detail of the restaurant Dean had taken them to, down to the white candle and the single rose between them on the table. But instead of seeing Dean's shy smile across the table, it was Gareth's leering face that greeted him when he looked up. A foot brushed his and he tried to recoil, but he couldn't move.
Sam! Listen to me!
Gareth was leaning across the table, a messily wrapped present in one hand, and Sam knew what it was, Dean had given him that present. His hand reached out to take it, unwrapping it without his permission. He looked down, but it wasn't the first-edition hardback copy of 'On The Road' that Dean had given him for his birthday, the one he kept in brown paper in the trunk of the Impala. The book inside the wrapping was filled with porn; boys Sam's age being held down, broken and degraded, their legs spread obscenely while they were fucked by pot-bellied men.
Sam's fingers opened the book, turning pages and pages of filth until they stopped seemingly at random. He looked down at the picture that took up an entire page, and the scene depicted made bile rise in his throat.
The alley was photographed exactly as he remembered it, down to the overflowing dumpster in the corner and the big industrial fan embedded in one wall, the full moon rising overhead. Gareth stood in the centre of the page, apparently unconcerned by his nakedness as he looked down on an equally naked boy sprawled out in the garbage. Sam tried to close his eyes, tried not to see, but it was impossible. He was looking at his own body on the page, bleeding and freshly fucked, smears of dirt from the alley obscuring the expression on his face.
"Do you like your present?" The voice made him look up, meet that crude smile. He couldn't tell anymore if it was the demon's voice or Gareth's.
Sam! This isn't real! You have to listen to me, please, we don't have much time!
The scene shimmered like a mirage, and the second's pause gave Sam time to register the voice that definitely wasn't Gareth's or the demon's. It sounded familiar, but not, and he frowned in confusion.
Then the walls of the restaurant dissolved around him and Sam was in Missouri's house, standing outside his bedroom door. The floor was in darkness, and nothing moved around him. He looked, head spinning frantically from side to side, but there was no Gareth waiting for him in a shadowed corner.
What the hell was this?
He took a slow step forward, arms automatically wrapping around himself like he was cold and didn't know it yet. The door to Dean's room stood open, but the bed was neatly made and none of Dean's things were there. Sam glanced back over his shoulder; his bedroom was in a similar state, cleared of any trace of his presence.
"Sam, are you there?"
His head snapped forward, eyes scanning the hallway for the source of the sound. His gaze stuttered to a halt on the closed door leading to Missouri's room; the ornate lock that had replaced the simple door knob. He'd seen this lock before.
"We don't have time, Sam, you have to listen to me!"
The voice came from behind the door, and Sam found himself kneeling by the keyhole before he realised he was going to move. "Who…"
A slightly-hysterical laugh cut him off before he could finish speaking, the sound muffled through the door. "Oh Lord, child, finally!"
Sam's eyes widened. "M-Missouri? Is that…you? Really, I mean?"
"Yes, honey. I've been trying to talk to you for days now, but you're a stubborn thing, aren't you? Never mind, we don't have much time. Azazel isn't going to be happy about this, you can bet your life on it."
"You…you were in my dream." Sam said stupidly, his brain feeling like it'd been put through a blender. "Did you…that paper about shielding? Did you leave that for me?"
Missouri ignored his questions. "Sam, listen to me now, child. Dean's coming to help you, but he's not gonna be able to do much if you can't distract Azazel long enough for him to reach the Colt."
Sam's heart lurched into his throat, his eyes burning with sudden tears. "Dean? Dean's coming?" He'd known that Dean would never leave him, even as the demon showed him the empty space that the Impala had once been parked in, but hearing that Dean was actually here and coming still felt like someone had cut away the ropes that had been slowly choking him without Dean's presence at his side.
"Sam, listen! Dean needs time to get to the Colt; you need to keep Azazel's attention on you. Can you do that, sweetie?"
Sam nodded, still hung up on the miraculous fact of Dean, coming to find him. And then he frowned, processing Missouri's words, what she hadn't said. "But, the demon, it's in you. If Dean has the Colt-"
Missouri interrupted. "It's okay, Sam. I know what I'm asking." She cut herself off short before the tiny wobble in her voice could go any further. When she spoke again, Sam could hear the sad smile that must have been on her face. "As long as the good guys win, sweetheart. That's all that matters."
He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. His hand pressed against the cool wood barrier keeping Missouri prisoner, and he hated that he couldn't break it down and set her free. Hated that he and the people he loved always had to make the hard decisions.
A shudder ran through the door. Sam blinked away tears that weren't really there, snatching his hand away from the wood like it was molten hot. The same shudder ran through the wood again, except it was more of a ripple, like the hard surface had been turned to liquid.
"Sam, I'm sorry, we don't have any more time!" Missouri called through the warping door, her voice hoarse and desperate. "Remember, keep the demon distracted, just for a little longer!"
"Missouri!" Sam tried to reach out again, some bizarre part of his mind insisting that he could still save her, maybe pull her through the dissolving door. But it was as if the surfaces were melting, sagging down and pulling him under with their weight, and he gasped instinctively as they pressed down…
When he opened his eyes, it was Azazel's yellow stare that he saw. The demon was inches away from his body, and despite Missouri's diminutive height Sam's breath still caught at the restrained power the body held.
Azazel's head cocked to one side, its expression set hard and blank as an empty page. When it spoke, its voice was deceptively calm. "So. I assume you had a little chat with our friendly psychic. What did she tell you?"
Sam screwed up every ounce of courage he had and met the demon's eyes with a snarl. "She told me to kill you, even if I have to kill her too."
The demon laughed, shaking its head. "Ah, so self-sacrificing, our little psychic lady. Did she tell you it's her own fault she got possessed in the first place? She took down her own wards. Funnily enough, she was trying to check whether I was in the neighbourhood, in case you and Deano ran into any trouble getting here. Unfortunately, she didn't see me coming for her until it was too late."
"You bastard." Sam said in the hardest voice he could manage. "I promise you, this is going to end tonight."
The demon smiled broadly, glancing back at Charlie's small body, still standing patiently on the sidewalk. "Yes, I think it is." Charlie nodded like an order had been given, turning to face the house.
No, not the house. Charlie was facing Margaret's house, and Sam frowned in incomprehension.
Until he noticed the light on in the living room. Missouri had told him Margaret had taken the kids away, but if Charlie was still here, and possessed by a demon…
His heart gave a violent wrench, just as the front door to Margaret's house swung open, John Winchester striding out with Margaret and Dean – Dean – in tow. Sam opened his mouth to yell, but one of those invisible hands tightened painfully around his throat, cutting off his air.
"Johnny!" Azazel turned around, walking towards the three figures like they were all old friends meeting on the street. John froze on seeing the scene, arms flung out like he could protect Dean and Margaret with his body. One of his sleeves was dark with blood. His eyes narrowed, and Sam saw the moment he put it all together.
The demon grinned wide. "So nice to run into you again! And Dean too; my, we do have a reunion here!"
Dean was trying to push past his father's outstretched arm, eyes wide and desperate. "Sam! Sammy!"
Dean, Sam wanted to say, but the hand on his neck tightened again and all that came out was a tiny pathetic puff of breath. His fingers curled against the smooth surface of the truck; the only movement the demon was allowing him.
"You fucking bastard." John growled low in his throat.
Azazel made a tskking noise, pursing his lips in mock disappointment. "You know, Johnny, I thought you were smarter than this. I mean, I didn't even have to work for this," the demon spread its arms, a mirror of John's position, "you just handed it to me on a plate."
"Charlie!" Margaret managed to force her way past John and Dean, her eyes set on the little boy. She stumbled across the lawn, bare feet slipping on grass, only pausing to wrench open the gate. Sam struggled against the unseen ties, mouthing furiously at the air, but she didn't look at him once. And when she fell to her knees in front of her child, tears springing to her eyes, Sam had to close his own. His face twisted at the dull meaty thump, and when he opened them again, Margaret was a crumpled heap on the sidewalk at Charlie's feet.
The sound was followed by two almost simultaneous thumps that made Sam's gaze snap back to the demon.
John and Dean were pinned to the wall of the house, just as Sam was, their eyes wide.
Suddenly his throat was released, and words spilled out like water from a brooked dam. "No! No, let them go, please! You don't need to hurt them, please!"
Azazel turned to him, a smirk warping its stolen face into something unnatural. "Well, now, Sammy. You know how you can make this stop, don't you?" It cocked its head, walking back towards him with a sinuous grace. When it got close enough, it lowered its voice to a hissing whisper. "Give in."
Sam shuddered; he couldn't help the reaction to that crawling dirty tone.
The demon didn't stop though. "Give in to me, Sam. Learn what I have to teach you. I'll leave them alone; I promise. I'll even find a new body" the demon reached out, a surprisingly gentle hand stroking Sam's cheek "if, of course, that's what you want." The almost motherly tone to its voice combined with those sickly yellow eyes made Sam want to retch. The hand was snatched away again. "Or I could just torture them until you give in. It's your choice, Sam."
"Sammy! Don't you listen to it, whatever it says!" Dean yelled, yanking at his own limbs. Sam could see the white strain to his body, and he wished with all his heart that Dean had left him. If he'd gone after Gareth, then he'd be miles away, out of this, safe. But Dean wasn't safe. Dean was here, and so were John and Caleb, Margaret and Charlie and probably Kiera too.
So was the demon.
His eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back against the car. He knew what he had to do.
"Fine." He whispered, hating how broken he already sounded. "Fine. You win. Just don't hurt them."
"Sammy!" Dean coughed as he was pressed back into the wall, a psychic force hard and heavy on his rib cage. It didn't matter though. All that mattered was getting to Sam. The kid was so close…
"Now, Dean, stop struggling." The demon in Missouri's body smiled at him, using the exact same expression it had worn as it handed him a plate of eggs for breakfast, reassured him Sam would be fine. It made Dean sick to think that he'd lived in the same house as that thing for over a week. He glanced up and down the road, hating himself for hoping some innocent bystander would stumble into their mess and distract the demon long enough for one of them to actually do something. But the street was deserted, there were no interruptions to be had – just how the demon wanted it. Dean wondered if that was really a coincidence.
He bared his teeth at it as it moved in closer. "Go screw yourself, you sonovabitch."
"Now, is that any way to talk to the guy who's going to be taking care of Sam for you?" The corner of its mouth curled up, and Dean's heart gave a painful clench. The expression stretched into a victorious smile, like it felt Dean's agony and fed off it. "Don't worry, he'll be in good hands. But, I think I'll be keeping you and your father, just to make sure he stays in line."
"Leave him alone!" John snarled. His father was clearly fighting against the bonds holding him to the wall, his jaw clenched and his chest heaving with exertion. His bloody hand was flexed into a claw, and as Dean watched, John managed to force it half an inch, an inch away from the wall. The demon glanced at him, eyebrows raised, and his arm snapped back into place like it was attached to the wall with elastic. John's mouth was screwed up tight, but a muffled grunt escaped.
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." The demon shook its head slowly. "It's a shame, isn't it? No matter what you do, you just can't seem to keep these boys out of trouble."
A flicker of movement caught Dean's eye, and hope bloomed in his chest. But it was only Charlie walking up the path leading to Margaret's front door. The little boy's eyes were black as tar, and as the boy drew closer, Dean could see his own face reflected in those curved empty circles, twisted out of all proportion. He wondered for a second about Margaret, whether she was okay, alive even, out on the sidewalk.
The demon turned back to Dean, that sick grin firmly in place. "Well, Deano. This seems familiar, doesn't it?"
"You leave Sam alone, y'hear me!"
It shrugged, a smooth movement that made Missouri's jade necklace glint in the dull light. "I have no intention of hurting Sam."
That made Dean's anger falter for a second, confusion overtaking him. It grew as he felt the pressure on his ribs lessen.
The demon continued to speak. "Why would I want to hurt him? He's the entire reason I'm here. Although," the pressure let off suddenly, and without it holding him in place, Dean pitched forward like every one of his muscles had given out "I do think Sam could use a…demonstration. A warning, if you like. What's going to happen if he decides to try and fight me."
A hand gripped Dean's shoulder, Missouri's long nails digging into his collarbone. The unnatural strength in that body held him up, dragging him closer to where Sam lay against the truck, splayed out like a sacrificial victim. As they moved closer, Dean could see Sam's eyes widening in fear.
"Wait, wait! You said you wouldn't hurt them! You said, if I did what you wanted..."
"Yes, but I don't think you really meant it, Sammy-boy." The demon sounded positively gleeful at the chance to show off its powers. "So we're going to do a little show-and-tell."
Dean was pushed face-first into Margaret's muddy lawn, and he coughed as too-long grass poked him in the eyes and mouth.
The grass didn't bother him for long.
The demon started small; a gradually increasing weight between his shoulder blades, like someone had put a foot there and was leaning into him. But it grew, and grew, until his already-sore ribs were creaking under the strain and he was gaping without sound. The pain of it was agonising, but nothing compared to hearing Sam begging, crying, pleading with the damn demon. Dean's own eyes teared up as he listened to Sam promise, over and over and over, that he'd do anything, as long as it left Dean alone. John was screaming in the background somewhere, but it ran together like a hum of white noise, crackling in and out like static. All Dean could hear was Sam, making stupid foolhardy promises.
With a great sucking breath, Dean used what little lung power he had left. "No…Sam…"
"Uh-uh, Dean. No talking, now." The demon said in a gentle voice, and it threw Dean back to being four years old, his mom tucking him into bed and telling him to lie back and close his eyes, even when he insisted he wasn't sleepy. "You see, Sam?" The demon said in a louder voice. "You see what will happen if you break your word to me?"
Dean's eyes rolled back in his head; he couldn't help it. It hurt so bad, and he writhed like a bug being tortured by a little kid, helpless and insignificant, so easily crushed should the demon decide it was bored with him.
The sound of the shotgun took him by surprise, breaking through even his oxygen-deprived haze.
The weight on his back was suddenly lifted, and Dean rolled over, gasping for air. He barely had the strength to lift his little finger, but he had to know what was going on, so with a long drawn-out moan, he pushed himself up onto his elbows.
And a laugh caught in his throat.
Caleb, unsteady and bleeding from the head. The shaven-headed man was half-sprawled over the hood of the truck, a shotgun clutched tightly in his good hand, the other clawing for purchase on the shiny metal. The older man flashed Dean a pained grin. "Fancy meetin' you here, kiddo."
"Caleb…" Dean threw a glance over his shoulder.
Missouri's body lay face-down on the lawn, faint curls of smoke spilling out from around her neck.
A hand landed on Dean's shoulder and he gasped in pain, but it was only John, running fingers over his arm and neck, checking for damage.
Damage.
Sam.
Dean's head flashed up again, to where Sam was leaning against the truck. No, not leaning. Stretched out, still, like he was pinned up there, held in place on a mediaeval torture rack.
He met his dad's eyes, saw the same fear reflected in them.
And then the weight fell back onto him, dropped in the pit of his stomach and pressing him down. Beside him, he felt John succumb to the same pressure.
"You don't think it's that easy to kill me, do you? C'mon, boys, really. You know only the Colt can kill me for good."
Dean forced his eyes open.
What he saw made him gag. Missouri's body, the throat completely blown out, but yet somehow she was still speaking, still moving like it didn't even matter. Strands of flesh hung from the gaping wound, her blouse soaked through with blood, and Dean thought he could see a flash of white – a flash of spine – through the fist-sized hole in her oesophagus. The demon pushed itself carefully to its feet, dusting off the long skirt it wore like a few specks of mud and dirt made a difference to its appearance.
It breezed past Dean and John like it didn't even see them, the hem of the skirt brushing over Dean's clenching hand. He couldn't even make himself grab at it.
"So, Sam. Do you see now, what will happen? Are we in agreement?"
Dean screamed in his mind, no nonono, please, but all he could do was lay there. Useless.
It was like watching one of his visions play out; knowing he could do nothing but bear witness to someone else's pain and hating it because there should be something he could do. But all the strength had been sapped from him, and Sam could only watch as the people he cared about lay gasping around him like beached fish.
As Dean lay writhing on the ground in front of him.
A coolness had fallen over him, pulling him away from his frenzied emotions and forcing him to think clearly. At first he thought it was Missouri – the real Missouri – manipulating him in some way. But it didn't feel like an outside force; there wasn't the confused mess of someone else's feelings and drives getting in the way. No, this was all him. Except he didn't think he'd ever actually felt this part of himself before, not so strongly. It was the same part of his mind that ached every time he tried to pull one of his psychic powers out, the same part that flexed and contracted like a snake behind his eyes. It felt…not entirely natural. But not evil either, and he supposed that was as much of a reassurance as he was going to get.
It was strange; he thought the part of himself that the demon had put there would be bowing down to its creator, pulling him along with it. Making him do whatever Azazel wanted from him.
Dean was still making tiny aching sounds, his limbs jerking spasmodically like he'd been electrocuted, and all the while he was begging Sam silently with his eyes. Begging him not to do it, not to give in to the demon.
Like Sam was really going to let Dean suffer a second longer than he needed to.
"So, Sam?" Azazel asked sharply, all hints of playfulness gone from its tone. Sam's gaze caught on that jagged rip in its throat. His heart stuttered for a second; that was Missouri's body being dragged around, defiled. Even though Sam had never really met the woman, she'd still helped him the best she could. She'd still given her life for the cause. Sam swallowed, hard.
Missouri was dead, and her body needed to be put to rest.
"Dean needs time to get to the Colt; you need to keep Azazel's attention on you. Can you do that, sweetie?" Missouri's words replayed in his head, and he nodded as if she was speaking to him. He could do that.
He closed his eyes, pulling together every strand of focus and determination he had. Moulding them, shaping them into a shield, just like the one he'd been holding up since Dean had disappeared. The bubble-shaped energy formed in his mind, strengthened by the sounds of Dean's helpless whimpers. He would do this. He would do it, to save Dean.
It built, and built, swelling up until he thought the top of his skull would blow off from the force of it. The not-evil-but-not-entirely-natural part of his mind soothed the ache, and it felt right, like he'd finally learned to walk after discovering he'd been doing it wrong all these years.
"What are you doing?" The demon's voice had lost some of its arrogance, and Sam let a tiny smile pull at his lips. He was doing what he should have been doing all along. If Azazel had meant for him to be a weapon, he'd be a goddamn weapon. But he was the one in control this time. This was his power, and he was going to use it.
He sagged against the unseen binds pinning him to the truck, letting the demon hold him. All his strength, every inch of him was pushed into the shield he was creating.
And then he let it go.
Dean had no idea what was happening.
He lay on his back, the wet grass soaking through his shirt and calming some of the pain that had taken up residence in his muscles, and blinked dumbly. Beside him, he could feel his father doing the same.
The demon was howling, hands clutching the sides of its head like something was trying to burrow its way out. There was no pressure holding Dean down anymore; it had suddenly vanished, like someone had hit the off switch. Charlie made an attempt to run to the demon's side, but apparently the off switch had been hit for all of them, because John was suddenly there, hauling the demonic little boy back and drenching him in Holy Water from his hip flask, muttering something under his breath.
Sam was a crumpled heap on the sidewalk, his eyes closed. Dean couldn't even tell if the kid was breathing, and despite the jelly-like feel to his bones, he valiantly tried to crawl towards Sam. There was no panic fuelling him, just a calm determination.
Sam had to be okay. There was no other options. He had to be okay.
The demon thrashed wildly, stumbling back against the fence running around Margaret's front lawn. Dean ignored it. It didn't matter.
Sam was all that mattered.
And then his fingertips brushed cool metal. He looked down, somehow knowing exactly what he'd see.
The Colt. Ready and loaded, just waiting for someone to pick it up, aim it and pull the trigger. Like it had been left there, just for him.
"Dean!" At the sound of his name, Dean looked back to see John holding Charlie's body against the wall of the house, the Holy Water raised over the boy's head like a threat. John met his eyes, set and hard. Nodded once. "Do it."
Dean's fingers slipped around the icy cold gun like it had been made for him. The familiar feeling of power swept through his system, dragging him to his feet when he thought his energy reserves had been completely exhausted. He knew how to do this, how to shoot to kill. This was his job.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. As if it had heard his thoughts, the demon turned to face him, its eyes bulging like something was trying to squeeze them out through its eye sockets. Dean raised the gun without hesitating.
He pulled the trigger, and a tiny hole appeared in the centre of the demon's forehead. It looked incredulous for a split-second, yellow lightning snapping in its eyes. Dean's smile widened into something feral. "Fuck you, you sonovabitch. Go to hell."
Then the body fell to the floor with a wet thump, the lightning flickering and dying, and Dean could finally breathe.