Chapter four! I'm particularily proud of this chapter for some reason... Just thought you'd like to know... =D
Dean doesn't know how he gets himself into these messes.
A quick jab and a flash of skeletal light, and another demon joins the masses. He wrenches the knife back and spins, catching the one who'd thought she could sneak up on him while he was busy slaughtering her brethren. His elbow clips her chin, knocking her away headfirst. He follows through with a vicious thrust to her torso. An impatient twist and he's on to the next one.
He could be sleeping right now, in that warm bed, under moth-eaten covers. He wouldn't even be here if Sam hadn't called him. (damn sammy and his freaking three a.m. wake up calls)
One manages to get past the protective charms Sam had magicked onto him, and he's jerked backwards by invisible hooks curled painfully around his shoulders. Dean flies through the air right into the charging crowd of possessed townsfolk. He curses. With a roar, he scrambles to his feet just as a young teenage girl rushes forward, the demon in her trailing out her nose and blood curling around her cheekbone from a jagged wound across her right temple. The knife hooks into the fleshy skin just under her jaw and rips out through her heart-shaped face. Her warm blood spills over his sleeve in gushes of thick red. The demon screams, burning, and the body crumbles away, only to be replaced by a scrawny business-type guy with huge glasses that overshadow his thin face. Dean kills him too, with a furious downward jab right through his collarbone; they're all too stupid to attempt to dodge his blade. But they keep coming and coming and coming – a never-ending lineup. She's raised an army.
He can't even remember where Sam had taken him. He'd done some sort of weird teleportation thing where they kind of just… fade into view with a whirl of smoky dust. Dean's not sure whether it's a Sam technique or if that's how the demons manage to get around so fast. It would explain the aversion to doors though; Dean wouldn't bother with them either if he could just fade into existence wherever he wanted. It's pretty awesome, too, evil demonic power or no.
A ten-year-old kid (ben – whatever happened to 'im?) with round cheeks framed by dark brown hair and decorated with a set of blazing emerald eyes snarls at Dean before flashing twin pits of hellish black. Nothing happens, and the demon shouts something unintelligible, in some archaic language Dean doesn't recognize, rage dripping off its stolen tongue. Dean bares his teeth wolfishly and slams the knife blade-first into its gaping mouth. (just a kid, for gods sake, just a kid)
He'd said before that he'd be willing to do anything for his family, but this is getting kind of ridiculous. Getting woken up three in the morning, no warning or notice, expected to roll over and accept the muttered, "Dean, wake up. We gotta go," And before you know it, you're poofed into the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes you slept in and the demon-killing knife that now substitutes for your Bowie. Yeah, Dean's has better days.
A burst of white light explodes in his vision and warmth spreads from a focal point at the base of his skull. Suddenly wobbly, he whirls to face his attacker. He's met by an enormous, beefy fist the size of Canada that oh-so-kindly introduces itself to Dean's extremely inviting nose. Dean can't see past the blur of colors that flash before his dizzy eyes, and hard, scratchy gravel impacts hard against his back. His head is whirling and something wet is dripping down his face. When his vision clears, he's surrounded by dark blobs and low, triumphant laughing. His entire his body is a throbbing mess of fiery nerves and he's lying at the feet of a hostile army of demons, completely vulnerable. He really regrets waking up this morning. (back up… yeah… that would be nice right about now… sammy?)
He really doesn't know how he gets himself into these messes, especially when he's pretty sure there are tons of other better things he could be doing with his time…
Not really; that is an outright lie. His little brother always takes precedence. Sometimes, though, Sam has really sucky timing.
"Well, well, well," begins the predictably unoriginal evil monologue. He resists the exasperated eye-roll. "Hey look fellas, it's the Boy King's royal pet. Not so intimidating without your freaky master, are you?" This is followed by a taunting poke in the ribs with nonsensically overly-dressy shoes.
Dean just groans, mostly because he can't seem to make his bloody mouth form words, but partly because this is probably the lamest intro to an evil monologue he's ever had the misfortune of being forced to listen to. (seriously. dude. cliché, much?)
The pudgy kid standing over his head giggles and snorts, and somehow manages not to spill drool all over Dean's hair. But then he gives Dean's head a nice whopping kick, adding to his impending headache, and Dean has to rethink whether or not he'll spare the fatty when he gets out of this. (sammy… cue heroic entrance… anytime now…)
"Whatcha gonna do now, Mr. Awesome Demon Hunter? Huh? Huh? What now?"
Dean raises his eyebrow in a 'Really? That's the best lame ass insult you can come up with?' expression. It goes unnoticed due to the jeering and taunting still directed at his person person via the (literally) stupid-as-hell demons who still haven't finished him off. Some just never learn. Dean holds back the inappropriate comment that just might push them over the edge, leading to his messy demise. He's learned a few things since his time in hell. Just in time too.
(three… two… one…)
The demons freeze instantly, rendered immobile by an unseen but impossibly powerful energy. A booming pulse explodes through the army, and they all stumble away from Dean's prone form with the force of the shockwave. The shocked looks on every one of their faces almost makes him want to bust out laughing. Or point and yell, "How do you like that?" But that's too lame for Dean Winchester, so he refrains.
Then the screaming starts. Dean has enough experience by this point to know to cover his ears. Jets of roaring, steaming black smoke burst upward, shooting past the raw throats of their former hosts to gather in a boiling storm above them. He clenches his eyes shut, just missing the sight of the herded demons bursting into bright orange flame. The backs of his eyelids light up, veined red; the heat burns his skin. And just like that, it's over. Not a moment too soon.
Dean waits for the suddenly possession-free crowd of people to collapse before trying to get up, breath struggling to whistle past dry split lips and a crushed nose.
"You could have waited, you know," a chilling voice murmurs too close to his ear. He doesn't jump, to his own credit. The expected shiver at the sound doesn't run through his body either, and Dean wonders if he's finally adjusted to the startling change. A bony hand clamps down on his elbow and none too gently hauls him to his feet. He can feel the cold touch through the layers of his wrinkled clothing. He sways slightly, head still spinning dizzily, but the firm hand gripping tightly around his bicep (squeezing just a liiiitle too hard) holds him upright. He's not exactly thankful for the sentiment just now, though.
"Took too long… to ge' your scrawny 'ittle ass here. Figured… it was about time to get th' show on th' road,"
"Hmmm. It has nothing to do with the fact that you let a four-year-old girl get the jump on you,"
The words and the humor don't sound quite right riding on the voice of this man that isn't real, but at least they're there. Dean isn't that picky.
"N'pe. An' she was p'ssessed, genius,"
He leans a bit heavier against the rock hard stone standing beside him, unable to keep his head from drooping below his shoulder line. Wonders where this is going – stuff like this actually go places now, if you catch his drift. Last time it's been about his dangerously reckless habit of jumping into a fight unprepared.
("are you trying to get yourself killed?" "who me? nah. suicides for emo girls. relax sammy. not goin' anywhere" "make sure it stays that way")
Who knows what kinds of lessons Sam plans to incorporate into his new scripted life? Oh joy.
"Let's get you cleaned up, Dean. You're bleeding all over my favorite shirt," the tone resonates familiarly in Dean's head, though the voice still grates the wrong way.
"Yeah. Sure. Good idea,"
Before he even finishes, an icy cold bucket of water dumps over his head, shocking and unpleasant. He gasps, breath nearly knocked out of him. Dean squirms, literally feeling his nose knit back into its original shape and his teeth growing back in where they'd been kicked out. The throb in his head is overwhelmed by a freezing nausea. It slides over him, slimy and dirty. Then (finally), it's all whisked away, taking his breath along with it.
"Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Sam murmers. His freezing, smoky breath brushes over the back of Dean's neck, raising the tiny hairs as it passes by. He shrugs, hiding the shiver that courses through his body. Sam chuckles lowly and lets him go to stand on his own.
As Dean bends over, still gasping, Sam, moves away to examine the scene.
"Lilith," he says, cold and cruel. It reminds him of Yellow Eyes. That sends another shudder prickling across his shoulders and arms to rest in his fingertips.
"Bitch 'erself… was here 'rlier… missed 'verythin'," Dean wheezes. Sam's eyes flash a muddy gold at that. Sooty black swirls in the center, reminding Dean of food coloring in a glass of water clear water. "But she ran the second I got here. Looked scared,"
Sam scoffs derisively. "Coward," he mutters under his breath.
He rotates slowly on the spot, breathing deeply, glancing longingly at the bloody mess left behind by his brother and the crude knife. His eyes hold a disappointed air, let down by the fact that he was too late to join in the violence. It strikes Dean harder than any physical blow, scraping hard nails of denial along the length of his spine. (its sammy. just sammy)
But when 'Sam' looks back at him, his eyes are still a murky mustard color, and his smile is feral. "Come on, big brother. Jan's serving lasagna tonight," (yeah, 'cept demons dont need to eat, sam)
He swallows to clear his suddenly thick throat and somehow manages to scrape together something resembling a smile. It feels more like a lying grimace, but Sam buys it. (he wouldnt have)
"Can't wait little bro. I'm starving," he barely chokes through the endearment. It doesn't quite fit anymore.
"You're always starving,"
"Yeah, well you're just not sensitive enough to my needs. Takes a lot of fuel to stay this good-looking. Not something I'd expect you to understand, Sasquatch," Now he's just rambling to hide the ache.
"Jerk,"
"… B-Bitch,"
As he passes by the still body of the pudgy fatso (not dead, is he?), Dean aims a heavy kick at the drooping cheek. The head rocks to the left violently (oops. was that a snap?) with the force of the cheap blow, double-chin jiggling. It brings Dean a low sense of satisfaction and all is right with the world again.
- - -
His hands still shook, even gripping the smeared doorway with angry white knuckles. He could barely get breath to move past his contracting throat. Any air that did get through was heavy with the metallic reek of blood that made nausea clench at his gut. He couldn't move any further into the room. Yet he couldn't just stand there, not knowing for sure. He needed something to go on; closure (turning into a frickin' psychiatrist here, sammy. blame you) Dean stepped in.
His foot squished down on the red, red carpet, sinking into it with a horrible squelch. He resisted the urge to jump away, and reached his foot for another step. His stomach churned uncomfortably. Something burned at the back of his throat.
"S-s-sammy?" squeaked a frightened voice he hadn't heard in nearly twenty-five years. "S-sam,"
His foot slipped forward a few more inches. He was fully inside now. He took a long shaky breath, wide eyes fixed on the bright red all around him.
"Sam,"
He inched closer. His breathing was loud and shrill. It puffed out before him, gray mist.
Then he froze.
Dean stood frigidly alert, listing intently to the heavy silence of the room. He was sure he'd heard a noise. Someone was there.
"Sam?" he called tentatively. Hope climbed up cautiously, bracing itself for the inevitable crushing realization of truth. "Sammy?"
"…dee…" There!
The room and all its horrors whirled away, leaving only Sam and frantic anticipation.
Dean splashed around the first bed and rounded the cushy corner. His heart pumped wildly. His brain reeled with 'what ifs' and 'maybes'. (pleasepleasepleaseplease) His breathing came hard, the metalic taste lingering the air nearly making him gag. Everything stopped at the sight of the drooping mop of bloody hair hanging over broad hunching shoulders, the lanky body folded between the twin beds, shivering. (thank you)
"Sam," the voice rose from the grave of a child who had died in flames and fear and the weight of a tiny bundle in his arms. "Sammy!"
His world was filled with only Sam and blood, his mind not able to make the vital connection. "Sam, answer me!"
His brother remained unresponsive. All Dean could think of was his father's accusing eyes. (i told you look after him, dean. cant trust you to do even that, can i?) He had to work to make his voice work again.
"Come on, Sam. Please. Don't do this to me,"
Finally, god finally, his brother lifted his hanging head and Dean searched for his eyes behind the long bangs. His heart stuttered. Then it thudded back thunderously at a roaring pace, pumping ice into his veins.
Cold, glazed yellow eyes looked back at him, uncomprehending and an unseeing wide. Glassy confusion transformed Sam's face into something unreasonably sinister. It grabbed at Dean's heart and squeezed.
(daddemoncabinyelloweyes: 'they dont need you as much as you need them')
His hands shook where they gripped at Sam's slumped shoulders. The tips of his fingers felt cold. He couldn't tell if Sam was really looking at him or not and it closed off his throat.
(sammegpossession: 'youre worthless')
"Sam…"
In the peripheral of his vision, a pasty white feather drifted off the bed to land in a thick puddle, mottled with clumps of shiny red.
He gathered his docile little brother into his arms and let the first tear fall.
Before you ask (if you even thought of it in the first place), Dean is not fighting demons in his boxers... Although... *winkwink* XD Hahaha!