A couple of things need to be said about this chapter.
First: nothing in this chapter is meant to endorse the purchase or use of the Colt or Magnum Research-licensed IMI Desert Eagle handgun. At no caliber is this weapon worth your time. The only reason it is referenced here is that we know Dean has one from the episode Something Wicked, and it IS a damn big gun. For a variety of technical reasons, it is basically never the best gun for any job. It is, however, exactly the type of gun that Dean would think was cool.
Second: this chapter jumps around a little bit, I'm going for grit and realism, except in one segment. If it works, it'll be awesome. If it doesn't, it could get pretty cheesy pretty quick. Let me know if I pulled it off.
I haven't done this in a while, but in case you were wondering, I still disclaim stuff. Whatever stuff I didn't make up, at least.
Enjoy Chapter 11
Kohadril
Chapter 11: Fear
"Holy shit!" Dean yelled as he hit the trunk release and bailed out of the car. Sam was already out and on his way back to the trunk. The demon approached slowly, almost casually, as they scrambled for their weapons.
Sam grabbed his brother's Desert Eagle, the largest handgun they had, not so much for the caliber as for the fact Dean had just loaded it with blessed ammunition. Maybe the combination of a half-inch wide Action Express round and the vengeance of an angry God would slow the preacher down. Sam took aim—the oncoming figure didn't make any move to defend himself—and fired.
The first shot staggered the preacher; the second took him to his knees. Smoke rose from the wounds the weapon inflicted as the blessed lead burned the demon from within. He bowed his head for a moment, and Sam almost let himself believe he'd done it.
Then the demon looked back up at him, grinning in a way that suggested he was as surprised at his resilience as Sam was. Dean, beside Sam now and holding their Beretta and M1911 pistols in opposite hands, opened fire as the demon began to rise. The demon pushed forward, even as the bullets pummeled him. Sam aimed at the host's heart and double-tapped it—no mean feat with a gun that large, at that range, in the dark—and this time the demon remained standing, if only barely. Dean continued to fire with the Beretta, having spent the M1911 clip, and Sam put his next round directly between the demon's eyes.
The demon kept coming, and Sam realized they weren't going to kill this thing today. Dean gave him a look that suggested he felt the same way. Dean dropped the now-spent Beretta and pulled an ancient pineapple fragmentation grenade out of the trunk. Sam adjusted his aim.
He put the last two rounds of the Desert Eagle's clip in his target's knees, dropping the demon instantly. Aphorael yelled in anger and thrust a hand out at Sam, flinging him to the ground with tremendous force, but failed to notice the metallic sound of Dean's grenade landing next to him.
Sam's head was swimming—he'd hit the ground hard—and he was having trouble moving to cover. Dean pulled him behind the car and covered him with his body. A thunderous crack and a brilliant flash announced the grenade's detonation.
Dean allowed no time after the explosion, practically lifting Sam off the ground as he crammed him into the back seat of the car. He got behind the wheel and turned the key, elated when it roared to life.
He yanked the steering wheel around and gunned the engine, coming around to face the demon's prone body. It was difficult to make out through the spider web of windshield cracks, but he saw it well enough. Aphorael looked up at him, his body torn to shreds, his chest open and his viscera hanging out. For a nauseating second Dean could see it regenerating. Then he hit the gas, getting a mildly satisfying view of the demon's furious face just before impact. The car lurched as it rolled over the demon, and Dean floored it as soon as the back wheels returned to the pavement.
"What the fuck was that?" Sam moaned from the back seat, apparently having regained lucidity.
"Road kill," Dean said with a cocky grin. "He hurt my baby, and my baby just got some revenge."
"That would be really touching if you weren't talking about your car," Sam quipped, crawling carefully into the front seat. "I'm fine, by the way."
"Really? That's great," Dean said with a mockingly uninterested tone. "Seriously, man, I'm checking that out as soon as we get home. Concussions are bad news."
Dean felt energized. The adrenaline was pumping through him, and the harsh thrill of combat was both familiar and comforting. It was a heady feeling, and for a brief time he was caught up in it. He smiled to himself.
Then a stray thought brought reality crashing back down. The smile disappeared and the energy evaporated.
"Sam, give me the gun," Dean said in a low, heavy voice. He glanced over and saw Sam's moment of realization. He half-expected a fight, but Sam limply handed him the weapon. Dean put it in the driver's side door pocket.
"Sorry," Sam mumbled distantly. "Wasn't thinking."
When they got back to the motel they locked it down tight: salt lines along every entry point, warding sigils drawn on the doors and windows, furniture propped against the door.
"Do you think we should stay here tonight?" Sam ventured, sitting on the bed and untying his shoes with one hand, holding an ice-pack to the back of his head with the other. He was careful to avoid disturbing the secondary ring of salt around the bed. "We still don't know how he found us."
"I do," Dean said matter-of-factly. "That road took us right out near the place we were going to go look for the creature. He's waiting out there for us, which means we're close."
Another simple answer Sam hadn't thought of. He usually remembered maps and directions with great facility. He shook his head lightly and looked away.
"I don't like that look, man," Dean said, bringing Sam's attention back up to him. His older brother looked genuinely concerned.
"What look?"
"That 'I'm a fuck-up' look," Dean replied. "I'm okay with 'scared Sammy,' I can handle 'bitch Sammy,' but 'thinks he's a fuck-up Sammy' doesn't fly with me."
"Yeah? Why's that?" Sam asked absently.
"You used to look like that a lot in high school." Dean replied, his voice betraying the subtext. "It's bullshit—"
"Dean!" Sam interrupted harshly, forcing it out through his tightening throat. His voice broke into a whisper. "Just…don't. Don't tell me how strong I am. I can't fucking take it."
Dean shut up, but he didn't take his eyes off Sam. He just kept looking at him with an entirely un-Dean-like mixture of helplessness and anxiety. Sam fidgeted uncomfortably under that stare, unable to hide but unable to look his brother in the eye.
"We need to get some sleep," Sam eventually managed.
"Yeah," Dean whispered as he finally looked away.
Aphorael staggered down the dark road, back toward the forest he had been hiding in. He was almost healed already, the power he had been gifted with doing its work with astonishing speed. As he came upon the edge of the wilderness, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of him, the mimicked form of the younger hunter. The demon felt his host's heart jump, and he was deeply discomfited by the being's starry-eyed gaze. He waited for it to address him, but the stranger said not a word.
"Yes, I have failed to kill him. They are more skilled than I thought," the demon said defensively. "I need more time."
"You all want more time," the being whispered ominously, "once you realize how quickly it's running out."
"It's not as if whatever you're doing to try to kill the boy is working, either!" Aphorael shot back. "So cease your looming and let me get on with the business of waiting for them."
"You wait close to where it rests. If you fail here—"
"I will not fail."
"Even if you succeed, you will fail. To succeed is only to delay failure," the messenger twisted. His voice was calm and distant, as though he were looking down on these events from far above where some greater picture could be seen. It was more than portentous. In the swirling maelstrom of the stranger's eyes was writ prophecy, heavy like stone and as unyielding.
Though the words themselves were absurd, they saturated the silent air, haunting the demon. He shook off his discomfort only with great difficulty. "Yes, well. Whatever the case, he will be dead before he and his brother can make it to the altar."
Aphorael pushed past the young-looking stranger, and as he stalked deeper into the woods, he could feel those dark and ancient eyes following him.
Sam reclined beside a glowing campfire at the center of the field on a warm, starry night. His clothes were different, just a woven breechcloth and a beaded necklace, but he felt neither exposed nor uncomfortable. He was not alone; he was surrounded by people he didn't recognize, but who were somehow familiar. He knew them, though their friendly faces were fuzzy and indistinct. They were kin, and he felt safe among them, protected and loved.
Time flashed forward and they were singing and dancing around the towering fire to the beat of an ancient drum. They smiled at each other, laughed and touched, and reveled in each other's company. Sam was taken with it, for it was like nothing he had ever felt. The power of simple music under a naked sky, of cathartic revelry by roaring firelight, of deep familial love unadorned by guilt or betrayal or resentment: these things were outside his experience. It did not make him forget his troubles, but it did not need to. If for only as long as the fire lasted, nothing mattered but this.
Sam awoke peacefully, and though his head hurt, he retained the feeling of comfort and safety the dream had left him with for a long moment. Then it slipped away, slowly but inevitably, the loving warmth dissipating and leaving him cold and afraid. It tore at him, to lose that, and he suddenly felt desperately alone. He shifted, turning to look at his brother for whatever comfort his presence would provide, but a voice stopped him short.
"You're never alone, Sammy. I'm always here."
It wasn't his brother. Sam looked to the front of the room, to the chair across from the bed, and shuddered deeply at what he saw. Not more or less than himself, but with eyes as black as midnight. Sam's heart practically leapt into his throat, and his eyes shot wide open. He bolted up into a sitting position and scooted to the headboard, as if to get as much distance between him and…the other him as he could.
"Surprised?" the demon-him taunted. "You shouldn't be. You've felt me in your head a long time now. Didn't know what to call me, but you knew I was there. And now, I'm out here."
There was barely a moment's hesitation this time, but through all the trembling and given how close he was to tears, Sam couldn't really take pride in that.
"Dean?" Sam asked tentatively before shifting to a more desperate plea: "Dean! Wake up!"
Dean groaned and rolled onto his back. "What is it, man?"
Sam's scrambled for something to say, but he couldn't find the words. Dean appeared to notice the silence and immediately brought himself up alongside his brother.
"What's going on? Are you seeing things?"
"No kidding, big brother,"the demon-Sam said, as though he really were talking to Dean.
Sam nodded his head, because he couldn't make himself say it out loud. He pointed at the chair, more shaking now than trembling. "Right there," he gulped fearfully. Dean looked to where Sam was pointing.
"You know he can't see me. Pointing isn't exactly helpful, dipshit."
Sam resisted the urge to respond. Even though he knew the answer, he had to ask. "You're telling me you don't see that?"
Dean hesitated a moment, and Sam knew, just knew, that Dean was wishing he could say yes. "No, dude. I don't see anything."
Even knowing it was coming didn't make that hurt any less. His whole chest tightened like a vise. Sam closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to keep from breaking down.
"Who is it? What are you seeing?" Dean asked, his own fear beginning to leak into his voice.
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
"Tell him, Sammy. Tell him what you're seeing," the thing needled. "Tell him about the thing you're turning into."
It felt like a knee to the solar plexus. Sam cringed. "I'm not…," he whimpered plaintively.
"You're not what?" Dean asked.
"He's not exactly quick on the uptake, is he?"
Dean's posture changed, and he rolled over in front of Sam, straddling the younger man's legs with his knees. He was now between Sam and his hallucination. Sam pulled away, surprised by his brother's sudden closeness, but Dean held on, pinning Sam's shoulders to the headboard with his elbows. Sam prepared to buck his hips, but Dean put his hands gently on the sides of Sam's face, pulling the younger man's head up and bringing their eyes together. The look in Dean's eyes—that firm, big-brotherly, "this is for your own good" look—sucked the will to fight right out of him.
"Sam, listen to me," Dean said. Sam nodded and complied, already feeling calmer. "I'm the only one here. Whatever you're seeing isn't real."
"You know I'm real, Sam. No matter what he says."
Sam winced and turned his head to look past Dean, and Dean slammed him back against the headboard, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave Sam rattled. Dean pulled them back face-to-face.
"Sam, there's nothing there. Nothing real. I'm here, and I am real, and I will kick your ass if you don't stop listening to whatever the fuck you think is there and start listening to me."
"What an asshole. I'm going to laugh for days after I kill him."
Sam tried not to flinch, but he couldn't stop himself. Then he flinched again because at this point, he was genuinely afraid of his brother. Dean would never hurt him, but he certainly would smack Sam around some more if he thought he needed to. He brought his eyes back to Dean's as fast as he could, hoping he would get credit for the effort. Dean's expression softened, but he didn't loosen his grip.
"Good, Sam," Dean said quietly. "Keep your eyes on me."
Slowly…very slowly…Sam started to relax. It wasn't comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, and yet, there certainly was comfort in it. Sam hated to be manhandled and he hated to be told what to do, but right now, it felt safe. He didn't have to be in control. He didn't have to think about what to do. He didn't have to keep secrets or hold things back or protect other people. All he had to do was what Dean told him.
"You're going to let him treat you like this? Whatever happened to strong, adult Sam, you puling little bitch?"
Sam fought himself not to react. It wasn't easy. His throat tightened again, his eyes warmed, and a tear ran down his left cheek, but he didn't turn to look at the thing behind his brother, and he didn't allow his expression to change. He kept looking into Dean's eyes.
"Good, Sammy," Dean repeated, this time whispering. "Tell me what you're seeing."
Sam couldn't think of an answer to that question, and when he opened his mouth, all he found was a strangled sob. He broke eye contact and looked down.
Dean's reaction was swift and decisive, yanking Sam's head back up two-handed and tightening his grip, digging his elbows even further into Sam's shoulders, pressing his knees further into Sam's thighs. "Sam! Stuff the shame. We know where that goes, and you're not hiding things anymore. I'm right here, so this is where your attention is, okay?"
It hurt, and Sam gasped. His eyes shot back to Dean's. "Sorry, Dean. I'm sorry," he whimpered.
"Don't apologize. Just tell me what you're seeing," Dean said, still soft but this time stern. Sam worked hard to keep that eye contact despite what he was feeling. And he worked even harder for the courage to do as he was told.
"…It's me," Sam whispered, his cadence breaking as more tears started to flow, as it all started to come out. "It's me, Dean. It says it's the thing I'm turning into."
"Don't believe it," Dean said without hesitation. "Don't believe anything it says. It's a fucking hallucination, and you know that." Dean looked at him intensely, as if waiting for a response. "Tell me you know that."
Sam nodded. "Yeah," he managed.
"He's right. I am a hallucination. Doesn't mean I'm not real, though. Doesn't mean I'm not inside your head."
Sam let the words wash over him, let them pass without reaction, and tried to steady his breathing.
"That's it, kid. That's how you'll beat this thing. That big brain of yours. It can scare you, but it can't fool you unless you let it," Dean said soothingly. Some part of Sam's consciousness understood that wasn't completely true, but for now, the better part of him believed his brother.
They stayed like that for what must have been minutes but seemed like hours. It took a while for Sam to get used to the presence of his hallucination, but eventually he started to. Only then did Dean begin to relax his grip, and only after Sam was clearly in control again did he let go, if only long enough to get some more drugs from the bathroom. For the few seconds he was gone, Sam was alone with his mind's projection
"Without him, you'd turn in a minute, you know that? The only strength you've got is borrowed."
He knew that was true, but for now, he was grateful for whatever he could get.