A/N: A big THANK YOU to you all – especially bhoney, MidgeVS5, Madebyme, supernatfem76, MysteryMadchen, godsdaughter77, cindy123, and PrincessOfHeartsNYP for reviewing chapter 5.
They're moving quickly, but cautiously, the kid leading the way while Dean follows a few steps behind, scanning their surroundings for any sign of threat. The idea of getting caught isn't appealing, not when he's so close to finding his brother, but neither is getting flame broiled. And the fire is spreading. Fast.
It's feeding itself, wooden pallets and cardboard boxes and God-knows-what-else providing ample amount of fuel to send it writhing like a live creature through the length of the old building. Though he can't see it yet, the unnatural and eerie arch of light that halos the south side of the warehouse is noticeably drawing closer, and Dean has no desire to be around when it reaches them.
They had discussed this, he and Jim, the possibility of the fire hindering their search and rescue, but Dean had needed a distraction to get Sam out, and a way to bring in the authorities without getting caught themselves. He's a wanted man, after all, and being found within a mile of all the crap going down that Maggi had grudgingly told them about would get him a one-way ticket to never see sunlight again. It had been a simple, albeit risky plan – sneak in, find Sam, set up the distraction, and then get out while everyone else is concerned with the mayhem. But Winchester luck has a mind of it's own, so of course it isn't turning out that way.
It doesn't matter. He'll work with what he has, fight through whatever tonight throws at him. He'll get Sam out, if it's the last thing he does, and as he concentrates on keeping them undetectable, the kid unexpectedly murmurs, "My name's Justin."
Dean turns his sharp gaze on the younger man. His face is round, boyish even, and his eyes flicker anxiously around as he speaks. Scared, Dean realizes. The kid's scared.
And he has every right to be, doing what he's doing. Defecting.
Dean's supposed to be the enemy.
"So, why the sudden switching sides?" Dean asks briskly. It's an odd turn of events, and there's still an issue of trust; it's only because he doesn't have the time now to search the warehouse himself for Sam that he's even taking the chance following this young stranger.
The kid – Justin – doesn't answer right away. "Vallis killed my family," he finally says, and when he speaks, his voice wobbles slightly.
That takes Dean aback, and his reaction to this news surprises him further. The brief surge of irritation and disbelief has him speeding up to grab a shoulder and get in the kid's face. "So, what – you run off and join his gang the first chance you get?"
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Justin snaps, his tone abruptly turning vehement.
"Well good," Dean fires back, "Because I sure as hell don't."
There's a tense silence before Justin finally takes a deep breath. "Look," he says, softer – and yeah, they probably should keep it down. Sneaking around and all.
Justin wipes the back of his neck with his hand and continues. "I know it's crazy but…with my family gone, I've got nothing left, and I thought if I could get close enough then…well…I thought…"
And suddenly what he's trying to say makes a little too much sense, as does the strange mixture of fear and exhilaration that Dean had seen in him but couldn't quite put a finger on before.
Seriously, is the kid that stupid? The words are out before he really has the chance to process them. "You thought you could get a little payback?"
The kid's failure to respond is all the admission Dean needs. He turns, continuing in the direction Justin had steered them, before asking scornfully, "And how'd that work out for you?"
Justin still doesn't answer, and he's glaring at the floor now.
"How old are you, anyway?" Dean presses. "Sixteen? Seventeen?"
"Eighteen."
Dean shakes his head. Now isn't the time to get into it with a freaking teenager bent on some misguided revenge scheme, not with Sam still missing and fire advancing toward them. The kid's way out of his league, but he lost his family, and that ought to count for something. Dean can hardly talk, looking back at the past twenty-two years.
"All right, say I believe you," Dean says, letting the derision fall away from his voice. "Answer me this – how the hell are you here if Vallis killed your family?"
Again, the kid doesn't answer right away, but Dean knows he understands the question.
Minutes are passing, along with Dean's patience. "I'm waiting," he urges when the silence drags too far.
"I wasn't there when they…when they came. And by the time the cops found me the house was… Well, there wasn't anything left."
And Dean remembers, remembers flashing his "badge" and asking to see the bodies. Remembers making friends and looking at crime scenes and playing pool. The smoke is beginning to press in on them. Soon they won't be able to see.
"Well," Dean says, and clears his throat. "I can't say I agree with you…but, I don't blame you. I still think you're nuts, I mean, going up against Vallis?"
"You did." It's not a challenge or even self-defense, just the kid stating fact.
There isn't much to say to that so, in tried-and-true big brother fashion, Dean retorts, "That's different."
"How?"
"Because I know what I'm doing."
"Right." The kid half smiles, then stiffens when a familiar figure steps out of the smoke behind them, a black silhouette in stark contrast with the burning backdrop. The gait of the man is familiar, as is his expression.
It's been four years, but even from this distance Dean can recognize the fury and pleasure in it. There's ruthlessness, a careless arrogance about it, as if the look of anger and suspicion is what his face falls into most naturally. He's tall and dark and for an instant, the two men lock eyes.
Vallis's expression doesn't change as he extends his hand and pulls the trigger. Twice.
Dean flinches, the report ringing in his ears, and waits for the pain.
It never comes and for a stunned moment Dean thinks, he missed. Then, beside him, the kid sinks to his knees, his hands coming up to cover his stomach. Blood leaks through his fingers, staining his T-shirt. Dean doesn't move, forces himself to stand unmoving, recognizing the act for what it is.
A challenge.
Tiny tendrils of near-invisible smoke curl upward from the heated muzzle in Vallis's hand. Justin's panicked gasping is loud in his ears and when Dean finally risks a glance in it's direction, the kid looks up at him.
His eyes are brown, and even with surprise and pain chasing each other across his young face, he reminds Dean of something.
It doesn't take long for Dean to figure out what.
Sam, pressing himself into Dean's side, his small hands clutching at his brother's shirt and trembling fearfully as the thunderstorm rages outside. Make it stop, Dean.
Sam, his training wheels gone, his bike in a ditch, knees scraped and bloody, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes despite his efforts not to "be a baby" in front of his big brother. Make it stop Dean.
Sam, flustered and angry, clutching his too-long hair, a frustrated habit, because dad never listens and they're always fighting, and all the kid has ever wanted is to just be normal. Make it stop, Dean.
Sam, his eyes frantic, pulling against his brother as Dean drags him from his bedroom, the fire rushing to consume everything, his entire life stuck to ceiling. Make it stop, Dean.
Righteous fury surges through him like a gathering storm.
Eyes like that make a big brother willing to do anything to make it stop.
Challenge accepted, you stupid sonuvabitch!
Dean allows his face to harden, meets Vallis's forbidding gaze straight out. Worry, helplessness, grief, despair, he gathers it all, channeling it, converting it into a kind of calm anger, letting it show in his eyes and on his face.
Shadows are dancing across the walls and from somewhere behind them, the approaching fire flares, the room growing brighter for a fraction of an instant and roaring with an almost inhuman howl.
But Vallis isn't listening to the fire's warning; he's shaking his head. "Dean Winchester," he says gruffly. "Knew that little prick was lyin'."
"That little prick is my brother," Dean shoots back, also heedless of the encroaching danger. "And wha'da'ya mean 'little'? Have you actually seen him lately?"
"Oh yeah. Tall as I'll get out. Gave my boys a little trouble gettin' him here. Doesn't look a thing like you, though."
The words are casual, monotone, all the more menacing for the lack of threat they contain. Okay, Dean thinks acidly. Two can play at this game.
"Funny seein' you here," he counters, using the same creepy intonation. "Ain't you supposed to be in prison?"
"You know, it's amazing what you can accomplish with friends in high places. Especially when the guy who turns you in jets outta town and can't be reached."
"Well, I don't know how you got out, but you're going back."
"And who's gonna send me back, Winchester?" Vallis is grinning, a magician with a card up his sleeve. "You? You seem to be under the impression that I'm planning on playing fair. Which, of course, I'm not."
Tex, whom Dean noted had been suspiciously missing from the fight earlier, is suddenly behind him. And pointing a gun between Dean's shoulder blades.
For a long moment nobody speaks, nobody moves.
Then, "Gotta love stand-offs," Dean remarks, breaking the silence with sarcasm.
"Search him." Vallis orders.
Dean's patted down, both guns and his knife liberated from his person and tossed aside. Dean glances over his shoulder, "Scratch my back while you're at it?"
When Tex glowers at him, Dean sends him a playful wink.
"Damn Winchester, you tryin' to be a pain in the ass?" Tex asks gruffly.
He probably should keep his mouth shut, but Dean just can't help himself. "Nope. Just comes naturally."
Tex ignores him and grabs the back of his arm instead. As if restraining him will do any good. "Come on, Boss, let's just get this over with and get outta here."
"Save your breath, Tex." Vallis's voice is low, unhurried. "I've been waitin' for this for a long time. I'm gonna enjoy myself."
Dean plasters his smile to his face. He needs answers, preferably before the fire reaches them and complicates things. "So, how'd you find us?" he asks.
Vallis hasn't even bothered raising the gun again. "Come on, Winchester. I've known since you been here. Don't you 'member Debbie? 'Cause she 'membered you."
Debbie? His mind swivels, searching through the names and faces he's encountered since his arrival. Debbie…Debbie…
Aw crap.
Miss Deborah herself, Deborah's Corner Inn.
And hadn't Sam said that a girl in every port would come back to bite him in the…
"Of course," Vallis interrupts his musings, chuckling at Dean's dawning awareness. "She hadn't been entirely sure it was you, you using a fake name and all, but I sent my boys to check it out anyway and, well, you know the rest."
"And speaking of the rest," Dean says conversationally, "Where's Sam?"
"What's the matter, Winchester?" Tex interjects. "Worried about the little brother?"
The casually flippant tone enrages him and, for a moment, his unflappable façade crumbles. "I swear, if you touch him I'll…"
"You'll what?" Tex sneers and, with a nod from his boss, delivers a backhand to Dean's jaw that causes him to stumble in place.
And just like that, Dean's smile is gone; he's through messing around. He calmly raises his head, spits blood onto the floor, and then – without warning - yanks his arm out of Tex's grip. For a moment he wonders if the stab wound in his shoulder will slow him down, will make what he's going to attempt to do impossible, but it doesn't as he grabs the surprised Tex by the shirt and hurls him around. His aim is perfect and Vallis isn't expecting the crash and there's a satisfying thwump! as the two men crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Dean takes full advantage of the distraction to surge for his gun.
He reaches his pile of weapons just as Tex dives for him. He throws the older man off, manages to get a good cuff in with the barrel of the nearest gun, and shoves Tex into a wall of shelves. The shelves are metal, so they don't break or even bend, but everything stacked on all six layers comes crashing down on top of him.
Dean doesn't have time to check and see if Tex is down for the count because then he's tackled and thrown into a stack of crates himself. There's a scuffle and then both men hit the cement, rolling over and over, locked in a deadly hold. The gun's gone, sliding across the floor, spinning like a top, and Dean's lashing out blindly, exchanging blows with his enemy until, with an unspoken agreement, they break away.
Like two predators they circle one another. Dean's lip is still bleeding and he's now the proud owner of the mother-of-all goose-eggs on the back of his head where Vallis had knocked him against the cement flooring - several times - but Vallis isn't looking so hot either, anymore. He's got a nasty gash on his cheek where Dean introduced his face to the concrete and a cluster of even bigger scratches above his eye from Dean's fingernails.
"So," Dean says caustically, rolling his head to loosen the tautness before falling back into a defensive position, arms loose at his sides, half crouched and balancing lithely on the balls of his feet. "Kill any innocent people lately?"
"When are you gonna learn, kid?" Vallis retorts back, his own posture mirroring Dean's. His footwork is smooth, feet moving almost in unison with Dean's as he takes a step. "There aren't any innocent people."
Dean scoffs. "You pull that one from a movie? 'Cause I swear I've heard that lame line somewhere."
Step. "Always joking, aren't you, Winchester." Step. "That's why I always liked you. You had sass; made me laugh. You could have been my favorite, you know?"
"Yeah, too bad I'm not a psycho killer. Now why don't you just surrender and I'll send you back to jail with all your fingers attached."
Step. "Sure, whatever you say," Vallis huffs, and then pulls something shaped like a cylinder from his belt. The click tells Dean what it is - a knife, and jeez, does everybody in this freakin' place carry one?
Dean eyes the weapon; it's small, a pocketknife, but used right it can still do a decent amount of damage. Permanent damage. The weapon's held loosely at his opponent's side and his face gives away nothing as they continue to circle, sizing the other up and looking for any opening.
"Time for payback," Vallis snarls, and then coils to spring.
Dean hops backward, throwing his arms up and out of the way as the blade catches and rips his shirt.
Flames are starting to cover the shelves around them like moving, jumping blankets, spreading from shelf to shelf, box to box. The smoke's getting thicker, too; pretty soon it will cloud their vision, and Dean's swearing because he really doesn't have time for this.
But Vallis is laughing; freaking giggling like fighting to the death in a building burning down around him is the funniest thing in the world.
Dean's got to end this, and end it fast. If Sam isn't dead already the fire will surely finish him off.
Sam, he thinks viciously, and as Vallis descends on him again, something inside Dean snaps.
Instead of dodging out of the way and avoiding the strike, Dean shifts his weight, leaving himself wide open and allows the knife to get close enough to graze his stomach, before reaching out and seizing Vallis's wrist, wrenching it solidly in a direction it was never meant to go. There's a satisfying crack and an angry scream, followed by the clatter of the knife hitting the floor.
Dean's not finished yet; he knees Vallis in the stomach, then delivers an uppercut that jerks his chin up and sends the other man unceremoniously sprawling to the floor.
But Vallis has fighting experience, most of it dirty, and he's able to catch Dean by surprise, lashing out with a foot that swipes Dean's legs right out from under him.
Then Vallis is on top of Dean, his blows relentless, hammering into him until Dean's vision goes dark and he's dangerously close to passing out.
A burst of automatic gunfire interrupts the onslaught, stilling Vallis's blows and causing him to roar in pain and disbelief.
Dean cracks his eyes open just in time to see Vallis's mouth go slack, his expression dull, and then his opponent's falling, his limp body slamming heavily onto him.
Dean grunts, the pain in his shoulder flaring angrily as he shoves Vallis off him. As he shoves the body off of him. Dead.
What the hell just happened?
Movement makes the disorientation worse, but he finds his answer hunched several feet away, the light of the ever-spreading fire illuminating his face, trembling fingers still clutching the smoking firearm. The kid's barely on his feet, breathing harshly, pain etched all over his features, and Dean curses when he doesn't make it in time to catch him.