A/N: Well, it's Saturday. Winchesters versus Benders. Round one.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.


Chapter 20 – a trick or two

Missy, please…don't leave me…

He could sense them out there in the darkness, all dried blood and nicked steel, gunpowder and rage and it hurt that he was caged up, hurt to have Missy and Abraham this close, and he couldn't reach them.

Abraham, I'm here… can't go out there just yet. I can't.

Gabriel made himself as small as possible in Dean's chest. He was a small curl of wispy whiteness tucked away in the muscles mere inches from Dean's heart. He hunkered down deep inside Dean's flesh, listened to ragged breathing, rough and hoarse, felt the slow thunder of Dean's heart stir the blood all around him.

Missy was right about God's way, God's work. Abraham had fucked up killing Gabriel like that, all those years ago, and Dean Winchester was the gift that made up for that mistake. Gabriel wasn't about to give him up now.

It was about time he found a use for the bastard. It wasn't like he was hiding under a rock like some bug or something. He wasn't running away. Benders don't run away. They hunt. They plan, and they kill. They wait for just the right moment.

Use him as a shield, yeah, that was the plan for now. Keep that shaggy freak brother of Dean's off him, Gabriel could bide his time until he could take control again. He'd take care of the Daddy and that other bastard, kill him nice and slow for what he did to Missy.

Missy could gut the freak. Yeah. She was in a killing mood. Gabe could feel it in the night air, sharp as razors.

Dean trembled and moaned as his body reacted, starving for the meds they'd both received the past six months. Gabriel pushed his way further in, twined himself around the bones of Dean's ribcage.

It was only the second time in his entire life that he'd ever felt afraid. The first time was when he looked into Abraham's eyes as his older brother raised his shotgun. And now this.

When he was tied in that chair, caged inside Dean's body, shivering and helpless, Gabriel looked up and saw his death in Sam Winchester's eyes.


The last ringtones from the cell phone echoed through the woods.

Missy screamed.

She pulled her knives and ran for the cabin, snarling, her eyes wide and feral.

"Damn it, Missy!" Abraham hissed. It was too late. He had enough presence of mind not to try to grab her. Abraham actually flinched as Missy charged through the brush. A second later a harsh snapping sound froze Abraham where he stood.

Bear trap.

The Lord must truly watch out for babies and fools, because Missy didn't go down. She kept right on running, past Jerry and Lee, and Lee was fool enough to put a hand out to try and grab her. She turned towards him in an oddly graceful motion and slashed him right across his right palm. She didn't even break stride.

When she broke into the clearing she ignored the shed. Gabriel wasn't there.

Gabriel was there, in that cabin, she could feel it, she knew it, he was in that damn place, a few feet away, just on the other side of that door and those walls. Missy howled as she slashed at the outside of the building. Her lips skinned back from her teeth, and both knife hilts slipped, bit into her palms. Wood splinters sank deep into her hands and fingers and she never felt a thing.

The only thought in her head was GabrielGabrielGabrielGabriel over and over again.

She left marks in the door, long frenzied strokes, then went for the shutters over the windows. She moved around the building hacking into the wood, screaming and shrieking and howling like a banshee. One of the knives broke. The tip of the blade broke off and lodged itself into her right cheekbone.

Missy didn't notice, not until later.

She went all the way around the cabin, and when she reached the front door she stopped, as if she finally realized that she wasn't getting anywhere, and nothing she did worked. The cabin was dark from the outside, but that might have been because of the shutters.

Missy finally turned away and walked back towards the brush. That yellow dress of hers, even though it was streaked with blood, was bright enough and light enough to make her a damn easy target. Jerry raised up far enough to aim and raise that fancy rifle he'd taken off one of those dead boys. He squeezed off two shots.

A single shot came from the house. Jerry yelped as the slug tore into his left shoulder. He fell back on his ass with a hard thump.

"You stupid bitch," Lee muttered as she walked past him. "Look what you did to me." He tied his bandanna around his palm, pulled the knot tight with his teeth. Missy paid him no mind. She didn't even try to wipe away the fresh blood that streamed down her cheekbone from the new cut on her face. There was already so much blood on her skin, a few more streaks really didn't matter.

"P-Pa?" Jerry whispered. His normally hooded eyes were as big as saucers. He sat there shaking, blood trickling down over his fingers from that hole in his meaty left shoulder.

"Jackass," Pa muttered. He came over and stood behind Jerry. Pa pulled Jerry's dirty flannel shirt and vest open and examined the wound with a critical eye. "It's a through and through. You'll live." Pa's tone was hard. He pulled a couple of dirty rags from his pocket and stuffed the rags down Jerry's shirt over the wound, front and back. "I was on a hunt once and I broke my leg. I still brought that damn cougar down. You gonna let this stop you?"

Jerry's head jerked from side to side. No sir.

"Didn't think so. Now get up."

Pa's fierce expression softened slightly as he looked at his little girl. Missy shuddered so hard he could feel the air vibrate all around her. She never took her eyes off the cabin; she was like a compass needle, always drawn back to that direction. Gabriel.

Pa jerked his head at the big black truck parked in the gloom behind them. "You boys go see what else you can find in that truck."


Screaming…

please no…

Dean was screaming.

No, please Sam, don't touch me…no no no...

Sam jerked himself awake. The corners of his eyes and his eyelashes were sticky with tears. He couldn't see anything for a long moment, not until he scrubbed his hands over his face.

Dean sat slumped over in the chair, limp and boneless against the ropes. His head hung down and his hair was a curtain around his face.

Sam blinked in confusion. Dean was across the room from him; Sam had his back to the wall. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, remembered only that he had to get away from Dean as fast as he could. That slight corkscrew of tension between his eyes had blossomed into a full grown headache, dull and heavy. His balance was all shot to hell; if he stood up he'd probably face-plant, so Sam did the next best thing; he crawled over to Dean on his hands and knees.

It was just as well. Sam felt like he was four years old again, like he should be apologizing to Dean for something bad he'd done, but he couldn't remember exactly what. His hands shook as he reached out and shakily touched Dean's right knee.

"D-Dean? Please, dude, wake up…"

Dean stirred.

Please, Sam thought, bright green, bright green is go, bright green is good…

"Sorry, Dean, I am so damn sorry," Sam whispered as Dean opened his eyes. Sam saw green. Bright green. Hazy, dazed, but the right color after all.

"…'fraid 'a you…" Dean croaked hoarsely.

Sam blanched.

Dean's head bobbled, and incredibly enough, he smirked a little. It was pure Dean. "In your dreams. Not me, you dork. Him. Gabriel."

Dean's right leg shook so hard it vibrated. He frowned as he looked down at his body, as if he was bewildered and somewhat amazed he had a body in the first place.

"He's afraid of me?"

"I c'n feel it. Dumb sumbitch," Dean slurred. He swayed in the chair. "I tried, Sam. Tried to keep you safe. Innocent." Dean's smile was sad and regretful. "Fucked that one up, didn't I?"

"You did fine, Dean. You did."

Dean frowned. "Bullshit. That's…" One long blink, and Sam could tell Dean wouldn't be conscious much longer. His energy level was tanking. Dean jerked himself upright with an effort. "You gotta stay human, Sammy. You got to." Dean's eyes closed as his head drooped forward.

Sam stared at his right hand. The scars were gone, lying dormant for now, waiting for another time.

Too late, Sam thought. I think it's too late.


Bobby grunted. "You get her?"

John peered out between the shutters. "No. Him." He drew back, pointed the rifle down at the floor.

"You're slipping, Winchester."

"You might be right about that, Singer. I was aiming at the girl. That's one crazy bitch," John muttered to himself.

"Huh." Bobby shrugged. He lowered his shotgun. "Think I knocked the sense right outta her when I nailed her with that door."

John smiled wickedly. "Not likely." He took another glance outside. "Don't think there was much in there to begin with."

That uncertain, tired look in John's eyes? Well, that was over and done with. John Winchester looked re-energized. He had the look of a man who had work to do, swiftly and efficiently. He had something…someone…to focus on now, the very someones who were going to pay for taking Dean all these years. It wasn't Beck, but it was a hell of a good start.

We don't kill people. That was something he'd taught his boys, but rules were meant to be broken. They weren't getting their hands on Dean again. Not ever.

"They got the Fletchers," John said quietly as he walked over to the three duffels in the corner. He kneeled, put the gun down and opened the nearest bag. "They got my truck. We can't stay here. You know that."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at him, then flicked a glance at the rest of the bags. He knew it wasn't even half of what they'd planned to bring. "You still keep those grenades in the truck? Tell me you didn't leave them in the truck."

"Nope." John grinned wolfishly. He pulled out an M67 grenade, round, fat and olive drab. "Got 'em right here."

Bobby grinned back. "Well, all right then, you idjit. Let's get to work."


"Just break the damn lock," Pa muttered crossly. Lee hit the trunk with the axe again. Nothing. The metal dented but the trunk didn't open.

Jerry crouched nearby, rooting through the dead boys' bags with one hand. Some clothes, couple of handguns, ammo and knives. Nothing special.

"We're getting Gabe outta there in one piece," Pa drawled softly. Lee kept his back turned so the old man couldn't see. He rolled his eyes The hell with that, he thought to himself. Gabe ain't worth all this.

Missy stood nearby staring at the cabin in the clearing. Pa turned in Missy's direction. "Place down there is sturdy. It's a tough nut to crack." Pa said softly. Lee and Jerry recognized the tone. Pa was thinking things out, thinking things through. A wolfish grin spread across his grizzled, grimy features as he patted the fender of John's truck with a rough hand. "We got a tough nutcracker."


"Sam?" John rumbled. "You okay?"

He wasn't but what could he say? No Dad, I'm not fucking okay. You think I pulled some witchy number to help Dean, but the truth is I made a deal with a demon and I fucked up big time? Yeah, that would really fly with the old man.

Sam nodded instead. He felt okay, for now, so it wasn't a total lie.

Dean was awake. He sat dull-eyed, motionless. His shoulders shook slightly, and he didn't even react when John untied the ropes around his left wrist, then his left ankle. He stared at the top of John's head, and then frowned.

"Dad…pleas'…dun't…"

"It's okay, kiddo." John moved over to Dean's right side, worked the ropes loose.

"…not safe…'m not…"

"It's okay." John coiled one length of rope around Dean's left wrist and gently pulled his arm behind his back. Dean hissed at the muscle spasms that rippled down his arms and legs from from being tied up for so long. His back creaked loudly as he shifted position in the chair. John tied both Dean's hands together, behind his back, and that pissed Sam off. "Dad? You don't have to do that."

John knelt down, right in Dean's face. Green eyes. His boy was still here. Dean had trouble focusing on him, but the color of his eyes was a welcome sight. "Stay with me Dean, you hear me?" John said warmly. "Stay with me."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yessir."

John straightened up. He ignored Sam's bitchface. "Bastard's still inside, remember?" They stared at each other for a long moment. John didn't blink.

Sam finally did.

"You stay with your brother. No matter what." John snapped, and his tone was clear: Don't start, Sam. Not now.

John turned towards the doorway. "Bobby?"

"Still clear. Don't know for how long."

John pushed the table all the way over to the wall. The rug on the floor was old and ratty looking. No one would look at it twice, and that was the whole point. There was a large metal ring set in the floor. John leaned down and pulled, and the trapdoor opened easily.

It was an old bootlegger's trick; the cabin was connected to the shed by a tunnel.

John picked up his rifle, pulled a flashlight out of his jacket pocket. He winked at Sam and dropped down out of sight a moment later.

"S-Sam…" Dean muttered breathily. " 'm chest hurts…"

"Dean?"

Dean sat hunched over, staring blankly. "It's him. Fucking bastard. I can feel 'im..."

"Dean, it'll be okay."

Dean didn't look convinced.

John's head popped up minutes later. "It's clear. Pass me the duffels."

Sam did so, and he fidgeted as John disappeared again. John came back moments later. He put out his hand and Sam pulled him up. "Fireman's carry for Dean. You got room. Once you get in the shed, you boys stay low, get in the back seat. Bobby's next."

Sam went down first. The air was stale; the place hadn't been used for years, at least. John jammed the flashlight into the dirt wall; the light pointed in the direction towards the shed.

Dean was dead weight as John helped him out of the chair. He had zoned out again, drifting off into some drug starved stupor. Dean twitched and jerked, but he didn't pull away. Sam hoped he was dreaming, hoped that whatever Dean was seeing was calm and peaceful. He deserved that much, at least.

Sam stood patiently down in the tunnel as John carefully maneuvered Dean down into the space. It was tight, but there was room enough.

You carried me enough times, bro', Sam thought to himself as Dean's weight settled on his back. About time I returned the favor.

Sam shifted Dean's weight onto his back, then moved forward in a crouch.


John heard it first, a familiar rumble off in the distance. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck rise up painfully.

They were nearly out of time. Bastards were revving up the engine of the truck.

"Bobby," John barked urgently. "Get your ass in gear. Now!"

Bobby backed away from the door just as John stepped to the window. He could hear the engine noise coming from just beyond the darkness of the trees and the brush.

Bobby got to the doorway leading to the second room just as John raised the rifle to the window shutter and opened fire.

"John, come on!"

"Be there in a minute. You see to the boys. Go on now." It was like throwing rocks into a fogbank, and about as useful, but maybe he could hit the windshield or the engine block, something, anything, to slow the bastards down, do something to give his boys a chance to get clear.

Headlights in the brush, bright white and blinding, and the truck hurtled forward. John was dimly aware of Bobby's hand on his arm. He squeezed off several more shots into the light, and my God, this was how Dean must have felt that night, with a ton of steel bearing down on him.

"You damn fool, come on!" Bobby snarled. He nearly pulled John's arm out of its socket as he jerked him away from the window, towards the inner room.

Too slow, they were moving too slow, with that stuck in molasses feeling that John always got whenever things went south. Two steps from the trapdoor, then one.

John had the sensation of freefalling into darkness and then everything around them bloomed bright orange.


Next post? Tuesday