Chapter 18
Hell. Baal's Gate, Third Level.
Dean's brows pinched together as he stared at her. It didn't sound good, whatever it was. "Alright. I'll bite. What's a blood key?"
"From the outside, gates need a lot of blood," she said, taking a step closer to the wall and running her hand over the rock. "Hundreds of people sacrificed."
Dean exchanged a glance with his brother. Hundreds of people?
"And from the inside?" Sam asked.
"A couple of pints is usually enough," Ellie told him. "Only human, and from a single source."
Dean wondered if he was missing something. "A couple of pints?"
"Somewhere between fifteen to thirty percent of an adult's total volume; that's weight dependent," Frank growled, looking from Dean to Ellie, gray brows beetling together. "Fifteen percent'll knock whoever gives it around. Thirty percent is gettin' within kissin' distance of hypovolemic shock. Take more and it's sayonara."
"Yeah." Ellie's gaze dropped to the ground, and Dean saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, his stomach dropping at the sight. It was something she did occasionally, when she was very nervous.
Lifting her head, she looked from one Winchester to the other, her breath gusting out. "So, we have to be logical about who that should be."
A chill slithered up his spine. There was no way she was talking about what he thought she was talking about. And if she was, he decided, he was putting a stop to it right now.
"No debate." He pulled his coat off and started to roll up his sleeve.
Ellie shook her head, walking over to him. She stopped in front of him, her eyes meeting his. "Don't argue about this, okay?"
Looking down at her, he shrugged. "Who's arguing?"
"Once we get out, we'll need to get somewhere protected," she continued, her hand curling around his wrist. He caught the wince on her face at the effort before she could hide it, and his stomach did a slow-motion roll. She wasn't in any shape for this.
"We'll need a car. Weapons," she pointed out doggedly, her gaze locked on his. "Worst case, Crowley – and an unspecified number of demons – will be on our tails. You and Sam are in the best shape. You're the strongest and most experienced fighters; you have the knives, and the Colt –"
"No," Dean said, his expression smoothing out. The hell could she ask him to agree to this? Now? "No."
"Frank has hypotension and a dickey heart and losing two pints would kill him," she said, her tone reasonable, irritatingly so, her fingers tightening around his arm. "Dean, we don't have much time. It's not going to take that long for Crowley to figure out what happened."
"No!" He glared at her, pulling away. "Sam'll get the fucking car. Hell, we got five other hunters there. Okay, I might not be as fast as usual, but it's not going to put me out. You –" He sucked in a breath as his chest constricted without warning. "Christ, look at you, Ellie. You already lost blood. Any more and –"
His head snapped around to Frank. "By weight, you said, right?"
The older man nodded.
Dean turned back to Ellie, suppressing his fear and trying to force himself to sound logical. Reasonable. Inarguable. "Even if you were fit, you got less to lose than us, a-a-and – you –" His mouth thinned out, eyes half-closing as he cut his gaze to the side. "You need it. For … for –"
"Crowley told you."
"Yeah," he admitted, uneasy at the flatness of her voice. "But, uh, I knew anyway."
Her hand dropped away from his arm and he looked back at her. Her head was bowed, hiding her expression. Where her fingers had rested, his skin felt cold. His breath whistled between his teeth, everything that'd gone on in the last three days hammering at him to get it out of his head before the screaming deafened him.
"I went back, the day after … to see you … uh, I thought we could, maybe, talk about it," he said. "Then I saw what'd happened."
He couldn't tell her – here, now – what he'd felt, the way up had become down, in turned to out … or how the world had gone from colour and life to death and ashes and shades of gray. "I can't –"
She lifted her head, her eyes searching his. He wondered distantly if she could see what it'd done. If she knew what it was still doing. Unspoken, but still hanging between them, the last thing she'd said to him. I won't disappear. But she had.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't – Crowley was the furthest thing from my mind when you left."
He nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground. The sonofabitch had been the last thing on his mind as well.
Taking a step closer to him, Ellie rested her hands against his chest, tilting her head to look up at him. "But I need you to listen to me, for a moment, alright? Really listen to me."
His lips compressed as he glanced at his brother briefly over her head. Sam lifted a brow at him, head cocked to one side. Hear her out, the familiar expression said. He didn't want to do that.
"You give two pints, Dean, and you'll be woozy, your reactions'll be slow, you'll lose a lot of strength and coordination. Same for Sam. Dwight's good, so're Marcus and Twist, but they don't have the same experience with Crowley or with demons," she said, drawing in a breath. "If I lose two pints, I'll be out of it, but I'm the lightest, and right now, the weakest. There's no chance of me being able to fight. I can hardly hold a knife."
"You could –"
"I'll be fine," she cut him off, her expression firming. "The baby will be fine – my body will protect it, no matter what happens. But there's no way I could help you, or fight, and if we stand here and talk about it much longer, Crowley's going to come for us and he'll kill us all."
Her brows drew together as her voice hardened. "And he'll make you suffer first."
He tipped his head back, eyes closing. The demon would do what he'd threatened. Crowley kept his deals. "I know."
"Give me the knife," she said.
No matter what he did, which way he went, he was fucked, he thought. He could risk her life to blood loss or to the King of Hell. No one was going to give him a third option and he knew she was right, knew it wasn't going to end there if he didn't make a fucking decision right away. He opened his eyes, swallowing hard as he looked down at her.
Above them, the enormous net stretched, the not-sunlight, not any-kind-of-real-light winking off the cables. He'd been here. The memories were dark and confused and full of agony. If he didn't do something, he'd have to see her strung up there, and his brother, and Frank.
"Dean, I don't think we've got a choice," Sam said, his voice full of regret and discomfort. "We gotta go."
His eyes focussed on Ellie's face and he didn't respond. One side was swollen, purple and blue and green bruising around the cheek and eye socket. There was more bruising and puffiness on the other side, along her jaw and over the arch of her brow. Crusted blood and smudges of dirt covered her skin, in smears and flakes and patches.
He couldn't breathe, every muscle constricted as the only two options bounced back and forth in his head. How could she ask for this? How the hell could she think he'd ever be okay with it? How could his brother? Hadn't he fucking well paid enough?
"It'll be okay, Dean. It will. I promise," she said, leaning against him, her scent, tainted with copper and iron and sulphur, swamping him. "Please?"
Something inside baulked. It wouldn't be okay. It was never okay, but he couldn't take her soft plea either. Or the certainty of what would happen if he didn't do something right away. He pulled her knife from the sheath and handed it to her. Watching her walk to the edge of the rock wall, reaching out to steady herself as she lowered herself to her knees, his hands curled into fists to keep himself from moving.
Think about the next part, he told himself, as Sam and Frank knelt to either side of Ellie, both pulling off the their shirts, ripping out the sleeves. The gate opens … then they're in Wyoming. If they could lock the gate, keep Crowley and co inside, there wouldn't be a problem. If not …
Sam frowned down at Ellie's arm, asking, "How do we know when it's working?"
"The gate will start to open when it's had enough," she said, turning her arm and resting the back of her hand against her thigh, the knife held loosely in her other hand. "Don't try to stop the bleeding before then."
"How much blood you think you lost down here already?" Frank asked, his face screwing up as he stared at the knife.
"Not much. Crowley restrained himself," Ellie said. "Maybe a half pint, all told."
Somewhere on the level, there was a drawn-out, raucous scream and Dean's head snapped around at it. The wind gusted along the funnel of the valley, lifting rock dust and sand, and smothering them with a foetid blast of sulphurous air.
He turned back to the wall. Ellie looked up at him and gave him a lopsided smile. She closed her eyes, setting the edge of the knife along the length of the radial artery, above the mess of raw flesh around her wrist. Drawing the blade back sharply, the artery opened, a three-inch long, deep cut, pumping bright red blood and spilling it onto the ground beside her.
The liquid soaked into the base of the rock, almost sucking it down, Dean thought, forcing himself to remain still and silent – against the desire to grab her, bind up the flowing wound and run like hell – or turn away and break every knuckle in his hands hitting something – or throw his head back and scream out his rage.
As Ellie leaned against the rock, he noticed a fine white line along her other forearm, midway up, the old scar identical to the fresh cut.
Crowley stared at the smooth, untouched stone of the cavern wall. Behind him, ninety-five demons, formless and writhing, waited silently. Another five stood, wearing the bodies of prisoners. All five men had been in the cells near the bottom of the Third Level for a long time. They hadn't aged in Hell, but they weren't really human any longer either.
The King of Hell's gaze fell to the floor of the cavern. There was no blood soaked into the ground at the base of Azazel's Gate. No blood anywhere around. The wall looked like it'd never been touched.
If not here, then where, he wondered, staring sightlessly at the closed Gate.
The answer came instantly and with a blinding certainty. With the woman with them, they would be visible, vulnerable, he thought. They needed someplace he couldn't see into. Couldn't see her.
Dean, Dean, Dean, he thought with a gleeful chuckle. Made your biggest mistake, mate.
The gate would unlock, when Dean let his blood pour out there. They wouldn't be able to lock it again, the key gone.
Well, he amended to himself a second later. Not Squirrel's biggest mistake. That'd been getting involved with Morgan. He wondered vaguely if either of them knew anything about the long history the devil had manipulated over the last three thousand years. Not just keys and seals, matey, he thought with a grimace. There were longer term locks at stake as well.
He spun around and realised he had another problem.
Of the hundred demons he'd called back from Wyoming, only five could return to the Third Level. Scowling at them, he waved an arm. They moved toward him, closing up.
"Baal's Gate," he said tightly, spreading his arms wide. "The rest of you, stay here until I get back."
The void left by the six meatsuits stirred the air in the vast cavern, bringing the acrid scent of burning rock. The ninety-five remaining demons heard the soft chitter of wing and claw in the darkness and moved closer to the stairs.
May 21, 2012. Sunrise, Wyoming.
Ellie leaned against the rock face. Her vision was starting to grey out around the edges and she felt light-headed, her thoughts drifting more and more slowly.
The gate was taking too much, she thought disconnectedly. It was an old gate, one of the first and somewhere, sometime, she thought she'd read they were greedier. She blinked slowly in frustration as the reference eluded her.
Stop … fussing … about … it … it's too ... late now …
She couldn't move, her heart rate decreasing as shock set in. Couldn't speak, could hardly think. The grating and grinding of the solid rock gate as it moved outward barely penetrated and she was toppling sideways as the gate opened.
Through half-closed eyes, she could see him, crouched beside her, his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. She wanted to … say …
… say …
… she …
… was …
"Now?" Dean barked, catching her before she could hit the ground.
Sam looked at the steady progress of the gate and nodded, wadding up the sleeve he held as Frank drew the edges of the open cut tightly together, his fingers clamping them shut. Sam pressed the makeshift dressing over the cut, and wound the sleeve around her forearm, constricting the blood flow. Not as tight as a tourniquet, he reminded himself, moving his hands out of the way when Frank wound the other sleeve over the first in the opposite direction. There wouldn't be any time to loosen it before it did some damage. Firm, constrictive only, his father's voice said in his memories. John'd been trying to stop the blood gushing out of Dean's thigh at the time, he thought, the memory vague.
"Sam, get outside, see if you've got a signal." Dean slid his right arm around Ellie's back, shifting backwards as he got his left under her knees. "We need help, right now."
Getting to his feet and squeezing between the slowly opening slabs of iron-bound stone, Sam pulled out his cell as he moved away from Colt's tomb. He ducked his head when a deluge of rain hit him, shielding the phone and glancing up.
The entire sky was covered in dark cloud, thunder rumbling continuously, downpours coming in sheets from the east, heavier and lighter bands. To the south, lightning strobed the bare, scrubby landscape; brilliant, jagged bolts stabbing from sky to ground along the entire horizon. In the western sky, the monstrous cloud bases pulsed with sheet lightning, their heavy interiors illuminated in long, throbbing flashes.
Goddammit, he thought, tilting the cell this way and that. The phone was obstinate, showing no signal in every direction he tried, the screen fritzing in time with the lightning. A crack of thunder split the night, and he flinched back toward the gate, eyes widening when the cell suddenly showed two bars. Hitting the speed dial, he hunched closer to the mausoleum and waited for the connection.
The gates were fully open, and he turned his head as he glimpsed his brother, striding through with Ellie in his arms and Frank stumbling beside him, in his peripheral vision.
"Get 'em closed," Dean snapped at the older man. "I'll help in a second."
Lightning struck the earth three or four hundred yards away and Sam screwed his eyes shut as his sight whited-out, the after-image of the bolt glowing against the blackness of his closed lids.
"Sam?" Marcus' voice sounded tinny and distant over the crackling line. "Where'n the–"
"Marcus, we're here, in the devil's trap," Sam yelled into the cell, hoping the older man could hear him. "Colt's tomb! Need you all to get here as fast as you can–"
The signal cut out with the next drenching fall, and Sam shoved the phone into his pocket, turning and setting his shoulder against the heavy door, his boots sliding out over the mud around the tomb.
Dean swore as his foot skated from under him on the wet ground, looking around the graveyard for anywhere he could put Ellie. The rain had cut visibility to ten or fifteen feet and he cursed again, blinking against the water coating his lashes, unable to wipe them. To one side of the small cemetery, a much larger tombstone marked one of the graves, and he hurried to it, lowering Ellie to the ground at its base and dragging off his coat. The headstone was lit up by a close lightning strike, leaving him with a vivid negative of her face, bloodless and waxen in the blue-white light. He blinked and swiped a hand over his eyes.
Don't, he told her silently, putting his coat over her, anchoring one edge to the rim of the grave marker with a rock to encourage the rain to run off, not soak through. Don't you leave me.
Swinging around, he ran back to Colt's tomb.
"Go look after her," he yelled at Frank, pushing him aside and throwing his weight against the door. Beyond the edge, he could see one side of Sam's face, hair and skin and clothing soaked, his brother's mouth stretched in a grimace of effort as he tried to force the other door to move more quickly.
Against the small of his back, the Colt weighed heavily, in easy reach, the second the two doors met. Inside the tomb, the red light was throbbing insistently, almost but not quite in time with his racing pulse. Moaning blasts of rank wind blew out between the narrowing gap, reeking of brimstone and burning metal and the nauseating smell of cooking flesh.
"Nearly there!" Sam's scream was whipped away by the wind, almost drowned by the relentless basso rumbles of thunder and din of the pouring rain.
Dean nodded, teeth set together as he pushed harder, boots scrabbling for a firm foothold against the soupy earth. The spill of red light over the sodden, churned up ground was only a couple of inches now and he closed his eyes, ignoring the bruises he was getting from the door's resistance, one hand reaching to the back of his belt.
Frank dropped to a crouch beside Ellie and lifted the coat, his fingers resting lightly against the side of her neck. Pulse was too slow, he thought, leaning over to shelter her further from the downpour. Hypovolemic shock could kill slowly or fast, dependent on a lot of different factors. Loss of body heat was doing her no favours and he inched a bit closer, wondering how the hell he could counteract that.
A banshee scream rose over the racket of the storm and he turned, wiping at his glasses. The two men by the tomb were both leaning on the doors at a forty-five degree angle. Sam had his back to the door now, driving with his legs. On the other side, Dean was bulldozing with his chest and arms, his sodden shirt showing every muscle working, his feet continuously slipping in the quagmire of wet ground. The gap between the two doors was narrowing fast, barely an inch left.
Another band of rain swept across the cemetery, almost horizontal, spattering his glasses and blurring his vision. Wiping his fingers over the lenses, Frank frowned as he stared at the gate. Was the red light turning black? In the pulsing dark light, something was moving, gaining substance. He opened his mouth to yell a warning to the brothers, and the heavy doors blew outward, sending the two men flying in opposite directions.
In the open doorway, a number of figures stood, indistinct but solid against Hell's glow. The concussion hit him without warning, a fraction of a second later, knocking him backward into the corner of the headstone; he heard and felt a sharp crack in his head, his throat abruptly filling with a rising nausea, vision and sound both fragmented with the blow. The rain beaded his glasses again, turning the scene in front of him to a smeared blur.
Dean hit the tree trunk with his back, feeling a crack behind him and a white-hot shaft of intense pain rip from his tail bone to the base of his neck. His lungs were labouring without air, the collision with the unyielding trunk having expelled all of it.
The fuck –?
The confusion was only momentary. Only one thing could've happened, and the knowledge drove him to roll to one side, ignore the secondary spike of pain from his spine, and get to his knees. Shaking his head to clear his sight, he pushed down and managed to get a foot under him, grabbing at the tree trunk and hauling himself upright.
Crowley stood between the wide-open gates, surveying the graveyard with a smug smile. Behind him, five demons stood, moving out a little to either side of their master. The King of Hell turned his head, and cocked it at Dean.
"Didn't really think I wouldn't come, did you?"
Dean stared at him, breathing deeply, trying to flush the sharp waves of pain from his body. Beyond Crowley, he could see Sam, yards away across the cemetery, his brother rolling over in the mud, pushing himself upright and turning his head.
"No, figured you for an experienced party crasher," Dean managed to say evenly, forcing a one-shouldered shrug as he glanced toward Frank. The hacker was wiping at his glasses, Ellie mostly hidden behind him. He looked back at Crowley.
"Guessin' you didn't get too many invites in your time."
The demon's expression froze for a second, before the smile came back. "The rapier wit of Dean Winchester. You look remarkably well for someone who's just spilled a few pints of blood."
He stared back impassively, keeping the closest demons behind Hell's ruler in his periphery. The knife was in its sheath, behind his right hip. He wasn't sure he could pull the Colt fast enough to take them all. Can't waste those bullets anyway, he told himself, drawing in a slow, deep breath.
"Oh," Crowley said, his gaze flicking around the boneyard. "Not your blood? Lemme guess, you let your ex donate? Now, why doesn't that surprise me? Did she tell you this gate is old? That it demands more than the others? A lot more?"
Demons lie. But he had the feeling Crowley wasn't, this time. She'd passed out, her pulse barely perceptible.
"Women," the demon said, with a knowing smile. "They do like to keep their little secrets."
He turned, glancing toward Sam and two of the demons turned and ran for the younger hunter. Another pointed glance sent a third demon barrelling toward Frank. Dean stepped back and sideways as the other two lunged for him.
The knife was in his hand, and the closest demon skewered itself on the tip as he met it halfway. Driving the blade in deep and angled up, he swung himself and the lit-up body around as the second demon leapt at him. It collided with the corpse and he stepped back, letting the body slide off the knife, its weight dragging the second demon down with it. Aiming a kick at the living demon's head as it flailed uselessly in the mud, its attempts to extricate itself failing, he dropped to his knees on the body, pinning the demon deeper in the squelching earth and thrust the knife through its ribs.
He glanced over his shoulder at Crowley as he rolled to his feet and pulled the blade free. The demon was watching him, arms folded over his chest.
From the corner of one eye, he saw his brother drive Ruby's knife into one demon, tombstones and the iron railing surrounding the graveyard painted in the outpouring of red-gold light as it expired. To his left, Frank was still on the ground, slashing at the demon attacking him with something clenched in his fist. The hacker was holding his own, but only just, he thought, gaze flicking between Crowley and the uneven fight.
"Wherever you've stashed her, given her condition and the state she was in, I'd say she's already dead, Dean," Crowley said, gesturing vaguely around the graveyard. "Heart gives out. It's a problem when the body loses too much blood, all in one hit. Just as well for you, though."
Lying, Dean thought, make a slow turn, his right hand out of Crowley's sight as he reached for the grip. Demons lie. Crowley more than most.
The demon was stronger. Maybe faster, he thought, easing the long barrel up and out of his belt. Surprise was the only advantage he'd have.
"You shouldn't have taken her," he said, his eyes fixed on Crowley's face. His fingers tightened around the grip of the Colt, trying to keep his shoulder still as he slid it slowly upwards. Keep him talking; keep him thinking he's got you.
"Oh, yeah? I did you a favour, mate. She would've brought him back, started it all up again," he said, shaking his head when Dean didn't respond. "You don't have the faintest fucking idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
The King of Hell took a step closer, a grimace contorting his face, dark eyes narrowing with malice. "Not that it matters now, but I was due some payback, y'know. The little bitch has been in and out of Hell more times than I can count, and I was absolutely relishing the prospect of seeing your face when I delivered her back to you in pieces. A shame that's off the table, but there's always Sam."
More than anger, more than rage, fuelled by too many memories, too many times the demon'd screwed him over, had taken what he'd needed, had pushed and pulled and run him against his will. Fury erupted without warning, a blast of adrenaline exploding through him, vanishing pain and injury, accelerating his pulse, ramping up his breathing. His sight sharpened to extreme detail, every raindrop clear and distinct, every pore on the demon's face visible.
What he wanted to do was grab Crowley by the neck, wanted the satisfaction of breaking every bone in his hands on the demon's face.
Fuck, don't! Hold it in. Just a few more seconds, that's all he needed, he reminded himself, dragging in a deep breath. The barrel'd snagged again, on the belt loop, he thought. Just hold it together, don't let him see.
"Nothing to say to that? No witless comeback? No snarling threats?" Crowley shook his head. "You're never as much fun as I remember you, Dean –"
The demon cut himself off and turned at the low cry from behind him. Dean tensed, yanking at the gun as Crowley's attention went elsewhere. The sight at the end of the barrel was caught. He twisted at it frantically.
"One Moose down," the King said, his gaze swinging back to Dean, black eyes bright with malevolent glee.
Sam!?
Lightning struck the ground on the other side of the cemetery, lighting the scene in a chiaroscuro of light and shadow, a stark snapshot that burned into his retinas. His brother – on his knees, doubled-over, one hand resting on the ground – beside him, the demon dragged a long blade from Sam's side – blood spilled from Sam's mouth, black in the fierce light.
There wasn't thought or plan. In one moment, he was standing, staring at his brother. In the next, he was lunging for the King of Hell, the bloodied knife rising, his hand wrestling furiously with the revolver's barrel to get it out.
"Uh, uh, uh." Crowley laughed, wagging a finger at him. "That's as close as you're going to get."
"Crowley! She's here," the third demon called, yanking Frank away from the headstone.
He couldn't move. His feet were glued to the ground, his arms fixed in place. He couldn't feel the grip of the gun under his frozen fingers. His lungs were aching, heaving involuntarily at the diminishing amount of oxygen still in them. Behind Crowley, he saw the demon deliver a kick to Sam's head, toppling him to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out Frank lying to one side of the gravestone and the demon crouched next to him. The demon tossed his coat to one side and the rain struck the woman who'd been under it.
His vision was closing in, grey mists gathering to either side. The ache had turned to a burn, a throbbing conflagration that was reaching up his throat.
"Power is an interesting phenomenon." Crowley stopped in front of Dean, smiling a little. "When you don't have it, every day is servitude. But when it's yours, it opens a world of possibilities."
Let's see how Sam does … without his lungs. The memory came and went in a flash, along with the bitter knowledge he was suffocating, that he'd die here, unable to kill the demon, unable to save his brother or Ellie or even himself; Crowley not even breaking a sweat.
The demon's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, yes, sorry. Lungs."
Dean opened his mouth, sucking in air. It was warm and foul, but it tasted fresh and clean, flushing through him like a winter gale, oxygenating his blood, his brain. His sight was clearing, the shrouds of unconsciousness receding.
"Better now, yeah?" Crowley asked. "Where was I –?"
The gun was still in his hand. The hopeless sense of futility at the thought closed his throat. He couldn't move. He'd had his chance and he'd failed. I guess that's what I do … I let down the people I love …
You should be able to see that I am ninety percent … crap. I get rid of that, what then? … you really want to die not knowing? … yeah …
Bullshit.
All fucking BULLSHIT! Memories swirled around him, fast and thick and choking. His choices. The things that'd happened. What he'd done. What he'd tried to do. What'd succeeded and what'd failed. He saw them in a blur of sensory input; sight and sound, touch and taste and smell, relived them in microseconds. Not just his choices but the choices of others, the decisions made out of his control, out of his sight. You don't owe us this pain, Dean, the demon's voice, seductive and soothing in his ear … not even that … not even fucking that … it's not up to you to take responsibility for everyone … it wasn't but he had and why, why'd he done that?
He could die here, so could Sam, and Ellie might've already been dead, but it wasn't because he'd failed. He met the demon's eyes, lips drawing back from his teeth as he fought against the force holding him with renewed anger.
"You want to kill me, Crowley? Go ahead!"
"Kill you?" The demon looked genuinely astonished. "Now, why would I want to do that, Dean? You're infinitely more amusing alive." Crowley's gaze flicked to Ellie, his lips thinning.
"I could stop her heart. Probably the right thing to do, all things considered," the King of Hell mused. "Wouldn't be half as much fun as pulling her to pieces, of course. Or did you like the scenario where I peeled her skin off first?"
Still alive then. The knowledge overrode Crowley's taunts, short-circuited his emotions, sharpening his concentration.
The demon smiled. "Who would you save, Dean? Your brother? The mother of your kid? Are you willing to sacrifice both to get me?"
It's all just energy, Dean. Her voice, warm and quiet in the stillness of deep night. Sometimes you have to stop pushing and pull.
Everything he'd been holding in, holding back, somehow controlling, thrust and pushed against his mental walls; and the cracks and fractures were widening second by second. Without realising he was doing it, he lifted his foot, moving it an inch toward to the demon. Behind his back, the Colt's barrel slid upward a few millimetres –
On a separate dimensional plane, souls laboured and waited and yawned; agony had become apathy, leeching imagination of its tremendous power, Despair had become depression, smothering all emotion and draining energy. Torment had turned to tedium and the glowing power of the souls dimmed and faded. The conduit, an artery between the damned and the Throne, fluctuated, dipping and twisting, finally polarising as the souls, their unconscious memories of nerve and muscle, of blood and bone, drew back on what had been taken, sucking greedily from Hell's sink of pain.
Crowley's eyes widened. "No. That's not possible."
In the demon's charred soul, through the bloodpaths of his vessel, the pipeline reaching from the Accursed Plane emptied, dwindling breath by breath, slipping away from him. He stretched out for it, mental fingers grasping but there was nothing to hold.
He took a step back, away from the hunter, as his power weakened.
– sweat was pouring into his eyes, his jaw aching as Dean forced his foot to move again, the gun creeping up another fraction. It was like moving through concrete, the weight and force holding him in place yielding in minute increments. In his ears, his heart was booming, louder than the storm's thunder. His world narrowed to the demon in front of him …
… let it all out.
… the thought came from nowhere, wrapped in fearangertormentlovedespairneed. What he'd had and what he'd lost. What'd been promised and was still to come. The feelings of a lifetime, refined and restructured over the past few weeks, rethought, relived and analysed for the liestruthtrustneedwantlove he'd finally been forced to acknowledge. Emotion he'd been trying to control, to put aside; was tempered and strengthened into a growing vortex that spun and ripped through every fear, every doubt and wound and scar. He sucked in a breath … and let go … and the whirlwind broke free, bursting through his body in a shattering flood of energy and strength, the invisible bonds holding him vaporised in the same millisecond –
"Wait! You can't –!" Crowley scuttled in reverse, frantically looking from side to side. He reached out blindly for Hell and was met with nothing, not so much as a flicker of warmth as he tried to find the energy he needed to translocate. Turning toward the open gate, he froze as his mind's eye filled with visions of the Accursed plane, his connection to the Throne sucking fiercely at his soul, blinding him to everything else as Hell began to fall.
The corridors of the first and second levels shuddered, the tiled walls and vinyl-covered floors cracking open, the crimson heartlight flooding the levels and washing over soul and demon in pulsing red. Deeper, the shudder travelled downward, acid pools spouting as it passed, the great nets stretching and breaking, shrieks from the shadow demons as the river rose suddenly, gouting molten rock, plumes of flame and acid rising hundreds of feet, incinerating and smashing them into the sheer walls as the panicking daeva flew higher. The wave passed through the Lake of Fire, lapping against the monstrous wall of the Seventh Level, devil winds picking up shards of black glass and breaking the walls of the labyrinth and in the wastelands the ice was fractured and melting with the breath of the upper levels hot gusts.
"NO!" Crowley screamed.
– and Dean staggered forward, twisting the revolver's snub sight clear of his belt –
Three sets of headlights flooded the cemetery as a rumbling clap of thunder shook the ground. The bolt of lightning that struck the top of Colt's mausoleum threw every detail into sharp-edged relief, bleeding the colours of the scene, outshining the headlights of the cars, the pulsing light from the tomb. The cemetery was filled with the stink of cooked batteries.
The demon next to Sam was blown backwards as a full clip hit its meatsuit, the metallic chatter of the automatic barely heard but the black holes visible as they stitched across the falling body. Deeper gunfire, the booming blast of a shotgun, blew away most of the face of the demon leaning over Ellie, and it collapsed, screaming, to the ground.
– time prolongated as he swung the long barrel of Colt's revolver around and out in front of him; every second hesitating, discrete and separate. The gun's sight slid languidly in front of his eyes, slowing and stopping of its own accord when it reached the midpoint between the King of Hell's eyes.
Crowley'd frozen. The realisation held no level of importance to him at all. The demon's face was blank, the dark eyes so wide he could see the white all the way around. Under his finger, the trigger slid back. He felt the point of resistance, the sight unwavering as the muscles of his finger contracted, pulling the trigger past it. The muzzle flashed and a small, black hole appeared in Crowley's forehead, right behind the sight. His ears registered the loud crack a fraction of a second later.
"Oh, yeah," Dean said, glancing at the revolver. "Forgot to tell you about the gun."
The demon stood, a few feet away, eyes still staring at nothing and mouth opened wide. Around the small, black entry hole, blue fire crackled and burned, spreading and pressing in through the demon's skull, lighting it up. Deeper, flashes of red and gold throbbed under the flesh, the meatsuit's skeleton visible in strobing snapshots, the magic of Colt's bullet immolating the demon's soul. The King of Hell screamed, dropping to his knees, then the scream was cut off, the light flaring out of mouth and nose, eyes and ears, and the corpse toppled forward, flames shooting outward with the impact and dying away, leaving a pile of ash in its place.
The whirlwind that'd filled and driven him vanished, time snapping back to its usual speed, the roar and racket of the thunderstorm and the hunters' gunfire returning, an assault on his ears, pulling him away from that insulated clarity and into the pandemonium of Samuel Colt's graveyard.
Dean lowered his arm, the revolver held loosely in his hand. Another volley of thunder crashed overhead, and he wiped the raindrops from his face, sliding the long barrel back through his belt. He felt strangely empty, transparent, somehow wiped clean by the flood of emotion that'd permeated every cell. Hot wind blew at him, carrying the acrid odour of brimstone and the faint screams of the damned. Belatedly, he registered the gate standing wide open beside him; his brother kneeling in the mud, Dwight beside him, red staining Sam's side; Garth and Frank bent over Ellie next to the gravestone.
No. It should've been over, but it wasn't, wasn't close to being over and fuck, he had to move. The panic in the thought sent a flush of adrenaline through strained and overused muscles as his pulse accelerated again.
"Trip! Marcus!" the call roared out of his throat and he turned back to the tomb doors, slamming a shoulder against the one to the left, ignoring the spike of pain in his back when his boots slid out in the mud.
Trip and Marcus ran to the tomb, Marcus adding his weight and strength to the door Dean was pushing; Trip leaning in hard against the other side, his six foot two frame and two hundred pounds gradually forcing it inwards.
Garth stumbled to his feet, running to help Trip with the right-hand door. Inch by inch they closed, shutting out the barely-heard screams, the pulsations of dark light, the malodour of brimstone and death.
Dean felt the doors give slightly as they closed together, the lock spinning around. He straightened and drew the revolver again, shoving it into the slot and twisting it clockwise. The double-click was loud and final as the mechanism dropped a bolt, somewhere inside.
Locked again. For good, he hoped.
He pushed off the door and swung around. Half-sheltered by the oversized headstone, Frank was huddled next to Ellie, holding his coat over her. Ten yards to the right, Dwight had gotten his brother to his feet, and the two were staggering through the morass of soggy ground toward the cars. Dean strode across the slick grass and sucking mud to the headstone.
As he reached him, Frank glanced up, his face tense. "Uh, I think we're losing her, Dean."
Demons lie.
But not all the time. Not if the truth will hurt more.
"Nearest hospital?" he barked out.
"Douglas," Dwight said, shifting his grip on the younger Winchester as they stumbled and slid closer. "Marcus, a hand here."
Dean looked at his brother. The side of Sam's shirt was a sodden red, his brother's face a pale gray. There was a trail of blood from his lower lip to his chin, smeared by the rain. Even over the noise of the storm he could hear Sam's breathing, too rapid, too shallow. "How bad?"
Sam lifted his head, shaking it slightly, his eyes losing focus for a second, regaining it as he blinked rapidly. "Not good. I think – uh, think it went through my gut."
"Left-side, just below his ribs," Dwight snapped out, his tone harsh. "Downward angle, right to the hilt. He's moving so it missed his spine, and I think the main artery next to it, but he's bleeding internally and infection is gonna set in quick. We need the hospital."
Dean felt shock sapping at his strength at the hunter's straight account. Sam'd survived worse, he told himself as he dropped into a crouch beside Frank, sliding an arm under Ellie's back to lift her closer. The bandage along her forearm was red but he couldn't see it leaking. His fingertips brushed along the skin of her neck, stopping as he felt the fluttering, uneven pulse. He slid his arm under her knees and lifted her, straightening slowly and swallowing down his shock at how little she seemed to weigh.
"Marcus, how's your car?"
"Good," Marcus said, easing Sam's left arm over his shoulder, sagging at the knees to prevent the open wound gaping any more. "Four-oh-two, four-barrel, full tank, four-speed."
"Get Sam into the back, get a dressing over it and keep pressure on," Dean ordered. "I'm driving."
Garth held the passenger door of the coupe open for him and he set her into the seat, glancing over the headrest into the back. He met Marcus' eyes.
"Don't let him die," he said, his voice low.
Marcus nodded. "Not on my watch."
As he closed the passenger door and ran around the nose, Dean calculated the distance. It was, give or take a few, seventy miles to Douglas, on the 25 mostly. The car's top speed was around a hundred and ten. He could be there in just over half an hour if it was clear. Glancing up at the turgid sky, he thought the odds were good for light traffic.
The Nova lurched over the railway lines and Dean flexed his fingers around the wheel, touching the accelerator lightly when the tyres found the gravel road. His gaze flicked left and right as they left the devil's trap but nothing came at them; even the storm was drifting west and north, the thunder now just a distant rumble.
Putting his foot down when they hit the asphalt county road, he watched the dash and road, the engine's deep song settling into his bones as he took it up through the gears and the scenery blurred beside him. The car was good, gripping the road tightly and the handling smooth and effortless. The power was there, responding instantly to a touch of his foot. He narrowed his focus to the road, ignoring the constrictions in his chest and throat and pushed the accelerator down to the floor.
"Look," Garth pointed through the windshield as they bumped across the rough track toward the railway line.
To the east, where the demon cloud had been, there was clear sky, filled with the blaze of stars.
The scrawny hunter twisted around in his seat, rolling down the window to peer behind them. Distant mutters of thunder and faint flashes accompanied the receding storm, but the sky was clearing fast, tatters and shreds of windtorn cloud breaking up and revealing the stars in between.
"What happened?" he asked, rolling the window back up against the cold, fresh air pouring into the cab.
"Dean killed Crowley," Dwight said, his voice thoughtful. "Guess they all got called home to see about the new boss."
"Who is the new boss?" Garth asked.
Dwight grinned humourlessly at the road. "No clue, son. We'll find out, by and by."
He glanced into the rearview mirror. "Trip? Frank still with us?"
The young hunter nodded. "Asleep."
"What about Twist?"
"Same."
"Okay."
3.55 a.m. Douglas, Wyoming
The ER orderly jumped at the sound of screeching tyres, knocking his coffee over the desk and dropping the magazine. He hit the alarm button under the desk when the closed-circuit cameras showed the vehicles surrounding the ER's entry doors, and ran out from behind the admitting counter.
"Riley, dude, what's happening?" Chet came out of the staff lounge, wearing a baffled expression. He was followed by Michelle, both staring uncomprehendingly as he rocketed past them.
"Grab a gurney," he shouted back over his shoulder. "Get Dr Emmet down here! NOW!"
The glass doors opened too slowly and he stared at the car that sat squarely in front of him, half-up on the concrete footpath. The V8 engine was still rumbling, the noise bouncing from the brick and concrete walls, its headlights blazing. Behind the coupe, a pickup, truck and small sports utility vehicle were taking up the rest of the bay, tired-looking, filthy men jumping out of all of them.
"Where's the vic?"
Next to the passenger door of the Nova, all he could see was the broad shoulders and back of a tall, dark-haired man, doubled over. The guy straightened and turned around, a woman in his arms. She was covered in blood, her clothes torn and shredded, a thick bandage wrapped around one arm. Riley took a step back involuntarily as he saw the man's stony expression.
"We got two," the man said shortly, stepping aside as the passenger seat flipped forward and another man got out. He looked down at the woman in his arms. "She's lost more'n two pints. Needs a transfusion –"
Riley looked around as Chet pushed the gurney out through the doors, the wheels rattling over the concrete. He grabbed the bed and pushed it close to the dark-haired man, locking the wheels and moving to the end to pick up the clean, folded blanket as the guy laid the woman out on it. Pulling it over her, he snapped his gaze back to Chet, still standing there.
"'Nuther gurney! Move it, Chet! Where's the doc?"
The dark-haired man had turned back to the car, helping the older guy. A third man, taller still, his face paper-white and shining with sweat, almost fell out of the car. Around his waist and abdomen, a hastily made pressure bandage was soaked through with blood.
"Here." Dr Emmet strode out of the ER and stopped at the gurney as the dark-haired man laid the woman onto it. Her gaze flicked from the woman's face and shoulders to the makeshift bandage around her arm, and she pulled the stethoscope from her neck, shoving the ends in her ears and slipping the disk over the woman's sternum. "Where's the second gurney!?"
The bang and rattle of wheels accompanied the third orderly onto the concrete apron and Riley helped the two men get the injured guy onto the gurney. He looked at the man and raised his voice.
"Penetrating abdominal injury, stab wound, low BP, shock."
"Get him inside," the doctor snapped, turning to look over her shoulder at the dark-haired man. "You too. What happened?"
Dean lifted his head, meeting the doctor's angry blue eyes as they followed the beds along the hall and past Admitting. This was the part that was going to be hard to explain.
"Uh, assault and blood loss, more'n two pints," he said quickly. "Doc, she's – uh – she's also pregnant."
"You know her blood type?" the doctor asked.
Dean nodded. "B positive."
"Allergies to penicillin? Or anything else?"
"No," he said.
"What about him?" She gestured behind her to the second gurney following on their heels. "How long did it take to get here?"
"Uh, he's A positive; he's, uh, fine with penicillin," Dean said, glancing back at his brother. "Took about half an hour."
"Riley, take her to the clinic, tell Carol whole blood and IFR started stat; I want heart, BP, temp plugged in, then clean it all up. I'll be in to stitch and dress in fifteen minutes," the doctor barked out the orders and turned to Sam.
"Surgery One, prep laparotomy. Get rid of what clothing you can without disturbing the wound and wash the same way. Sterilised pad over the entire abdomen and get heating pads over everything else; you have to keep him warm. Start a blood bag, plasma and IFR, 0.9 saline. We'll need bloodwork on both of them as soon as possible," Dr Emmet said as she lifted the stethoscope and slung it back around her neck. "Call in Dr Phillips and Dr Ramirez, and make sure the cart is close by, he's in shock, he's a serious risk for an arrest."
"You," she added, pointing a finger at Dean. "You need to tell the nurse exactly what happened to them."
He nodded, glancing back at Marcus.
"We'll get the cars out of the way and be in," Marcus said, turning for doors.
5.43 a.m. May 22, 2012. Douglas, Wyoming
Dean sat slumped in the chair beside the hospital bed, his head resting on his arms, Ellie's hand tucked under his cheek. Around the bed a number of monitors registered her vital signs, their soft whirring and beeping noises muted and soothing in the otherwise silent room. Beside the bed, a bag of whole blood was steadily flowing into her vein, a second bag of clear fluid hanging from the pole and going into her other arm.
Sam was out of surgery. Dr Phillips had found him, the doc still in his blood-spattered scrubs, and had given him the news that his brother had made it through the first round. There'd be another two operations if he continued to stabilise, spread out over the next couple of days.
He'd lost a small section of large intestine, his left kidney had been nicked and the demon's blade had very narrowly missed both spine and celiac trunk, the doc'd told him. He'd responded well, the resections were holding, the cavity cleaned. He'd been transferred to IC, given a combination of antibiotics to counteract the inevitable peritoneal infection, and was still unconscious. If nothing went wrong, he was scheduled for a smaller op the following day, to finalise the stitching on the large intestine walls, and another small op on day three, to do the same for the small intestine. They were always concerned about complications with abdominal surgery, but it was looking hopeful he'd be discharged in eight to ten days.
Dean'd spent his allowed ten minutes in the IC, watching over his brother and reading what he could of the notations on Sam's chart. Lying on the bed, with a nasogastric tube inserted in his nose, another snaking out from under the lightweight sheet, he watched Sam sleep, listening to the steady breaths. There were multiple bags hanging to both sides of the bed, monitors showing a steady heartbeat and blood pressure, temperature and oxygen-count all in the green.
The doctor expected Sam to regain consciousness in three to four hours. He'd left Bobby's flask with Sam's personal effects, backing out quietly and returning to the room one floor below, weariness crashing into him as he'd pulled the visitor's chair from the wall and set it beside the raised bed. He didn't think he could sleep, tension repeatedly sending shivers down his spine, but he could sit, eyes closed, listening to the quiet hum and beeps of the machines.
The attending doctor had run a variety of tests and was checking on Ellie every forty-five minutes. She'd been blunt about her injuries and about the chances for recovery, her expression suggesting she'd seen plenty of abused women and their briefly remorseful spouses in her hospital and she wasn't going to believe anything he told her.
"Twelve to twenty-four hours," she'd told him, her gaze on the monitors. "If shock, trauma or blood loss is too severe, she'll miscarry within that time frame."
He'd been standing on the other side of the bed, hardly taking in what she'd been saying.
"This woman was restrained and systematically tortured, Mr Smith," Dr Emmet'd continued, her voice harsh with distaste. "The injury to her arm, however, was self-inflicted. Can you explain that?"
He'd looked at her then. "Probably not in any way that'd make a lot of sense."
"Are you the father of the baby?"
"Yeah," he'd said, looking back at Ellie.
"There is severe damage to the shoulder joints and all the soft tissue surrounding them," Dr Emmet'd said, listing the injuries in a cold, impersonal tone, her gaze fixed on him. He'd been able to feel it, burning against the side of his face. He couldn't give her what she wanted, a nice, plausible explanation. "Multiple small incisions, extensive bruising and the abrasions around her wrists and ankles. Those are several days older than the self-inflicted wound which took something over two and a half pints of her body's blood supply."
She'd shifted her gaze to stare at the monitors. "Did she try to take her own life?"
"No," he'd said. "I know what it looks like."
He had. Some kind of BDSM gone wrong, gone too far and a suicide attempt at the end of it. He could maybe tell her Ellie'd been brainwashed, involved in a cult. The doc'd looked hard enough at the cuts and bruises on his face that she might've even believed him, believed he wasn't the bad guy in this. He couldn't raise the energy to try to convince her of anything right now.
"I have to file a report, notify the police."
He'd nodded, keeping his gaze on Ellie's face. "But she's going to be alright?"
"We'll know for sure in about twelve hours."
There was nothing to do but wait.
Marcus walked along the hospital's corridors, Trip at his heels. The place was quiet enough, but he'd lived as long as he had by not making assumptions and by being prepared. Dean was out on his feet and in no shape, physically or mentally, to keep in mind the bigger picture. He didn't mind the security detail; he could catch up on his sleep in a few hours.
As he turned for the stairs, he wondered exactly what the repercussions of Crowley's death were going to be. From what he'd heard from Ellie in the last few months, Heaven was in no better state than Hell.
Didn't mean their jobs were at risk, he thought with a sour smile. Dwight'd mentioned the vamp trail he and Twist had been following, a few weeks ago, and the levis were still out there, large as life and twice as ugly.
He kept going down the open metal and concrete staircase until he reached the basement, flicking on his flashlight as he pushed the door ajar. Too many monsters. Not enough hunters. That wasn't going to ever change.
Frank slept in an empty bay in the ER. In a chair in the corridor, Twist kept an eye on him, another on the ER's glass doors. Better safe than sorry was a saying he'd learned at his mother's knee and lived by his entire life.
The hacker's blood pressure had plummeted when they'd parked the vehicles and returned to the building. He'd muttered something about meds before he'd passed out, and they'd gotten him onto a gurney, the pretty ER nurse cleaning him up and running a dozen tests before giving him the medications he'd been without for weeks.
Twist stretched in the chair, muscles aching and joints twinging with the inactivity. Times, they were a'changing, he thought as he resettled himself. Another new king in Hell would stir up everything.
Dean jerked to wakefulness, his hand tightening around Ellie's as he stared at the monitors above the bed. Something was wrong. He turned his head slowly, his gaze travelling the length of her body under the plain white woven blanket and stopping as he saw a hint of dark red seeping slowly through the fibres. He looked up at the heart monitor, seeing the number falling, his eyes flicking back to the stain which was expanding rapidly, the blood pressure monitor beeping insistently as those numbers also fell. He struggled to his feet and lifted the covers, his heart racing then faltering as he saw the blood pooled along the length of the mattress, flowing out from her, dripping from the edges of the bed to the clean white vinyl floor beneath.
The room was getting warmer and his nose tickled at the drifting scent of sulphur.
"Hello, Dean. Fancy a chat?"
He spun around, hand searching for the Colt as he saw the demon in the doorway.
"You're dead!"
"Hate to disappoint you, but no," Crowley said, sauntering into the room and peering at the bed. He waved a hand in the air. "Unfinished business, mate."
In the bed, Ellie convulsed, and Dean saw a long section of her skin peel back, muscle and bone and tendon visible underneath.
"NO!"
"What was it you used to like so much down here?" the demon pondered. "That's right."
Dean felt a weight in his hand, looking down. The flashing lights of the monitors winked from the open blade of the long straight razor.
"Gimme a hand here," Crowley said, standing on the other side of the bed and wriggling his fingers.
Dean felt his arm move, his hand close tightly around the handle of the razor as he lifted it.
"Sooner or later, Dean, you destroy everything you love," Crowley said, glancing up. "Isn't that right? Just giving you a bit of a head start here. Just doin' you a favour, mate."
Sweat ran down his face as he struggled to stop the descent of the blade, his teeth grinding against each other.
"Don't –" he said, as the edge of the razor touched the smooth skin of Ellie's abdomen, his fingers tightening.
"Your problem, my friend, is no one hates you as much as you," Crowley told him. "Trust me, I've tried."
The demon shook his head. "That's the right place, dig in."
A line of red appeared along Ellie's torso as he drew the razor down, the flesh parting and widening, through skin and muscle, revealing the bright organs, filled with blood. Bile rose, filling his throat and he gagged. The razor remained perfectly steady, slicing deeper.
"A bit further," Crowley encouraged. "Been a while since I've personally eviscerated someone, but it's amazing how these things come back. We need to get rid of this kid. Bad times are comin' and you don't want to be a part of it."
His eyes were screwed shut but he could still see the steady descent of the blade in his hand, the demon's avid expression as he leaned closer.
Crowley looked up. "You really thought you'd get a second chance, Dean? Something for yourself? You're not ready, matey."
He disappeared and Dean flinched back, the ringing clatter of the razor loud on the tiled floor, his gaze dropping to the woman in front of him. Blood was flowing from the long incision in her abdomen, her face was pale, eyes open and fixed.
"S-someone help! Help!" He looked wildly around the silent room, the still dark corridor beyond the glass walls and doors. "HELP ME!"
7.43 a.m.
Dean jerked to wakefulness, his heart hammering frantically, his chest aching, and his gaze went straight to the end of the bed. The covers were smooth, white and unmarked. His head snapped around to look at the monitors above her – heartbeat was regular, sixty five beats per minute and strong, her BP was steady at a hundred and seventeen over seventy eight. The room was cool and empty, no other smells but antiseptic, disinfectant and the slightly plasticy smell of the equipment.
Leaning his forehead against his hand, he could feel the sweat that coated it. He lifted his head and wiped his sleeve over his face, reaction shaking through him. He closed his eyes, waiting for his pulse to settle, his breathing to slow, swallowing hard against the taste of bile at the back of his throat.
Just a nightmare, he told himself. Nothing more than that, no surprises, nothing to write home about. He got to his feet and walked unsteadily past the bed and machines to the room's tiny ensuite. Turning on the cold tap, he leaned over the sink and washed his hands, cupping them together and dunking his face. For a long moment, he let the water run down the side of his face, cold and bracing against the receding images of the dream. He picked up the plastic cup and filled it, tipping it up to rinse out his mouth and spitting that out, gulping down the rest.
Just another nightmare, he repeated silently, staring at his reflection in the small mirror. Something to look forward to until his subconscious had worked through all the possible scenarios and let it go. He grabbed at the small towel on the rail, drying his face and hands.
Returning to the room, he walked around the hospital bed, his gaze flicking over the monitors involuntarily, reassured by the steady numbers and flashing lights.
The chair was no more comfortable than it'd been before, but he sank into with a feeling of relief, leaning forward, his elbows on the edge of the bed. He picked up Ellie's hand, holding the palm against his cheek as he studied her face.
The blood and grime had been cleaned away, the chalk white tone of her skin when they'd gotten here gone now, replaced by faint colour with the steady flow from the bags hanging by the bed. Along the right side, from temple to jaw, the flesh was still swollen and the bruises were now all black fading to blue at the edges. Beneath the hospital gown, the deeper cuts and gouges had been stitched and dressed. Her wrists were bandaged, the raw lacerations from the roughly cast shackles had been cleaned and wrapped in soft gauze dressings.
From an outsider's view, she looked like she'd spent the past month in a Chinese prison. His brows pinched together with the thought. It'd been worse than that, but too far from most people's reality to explain.
The cops had turned up an hour ago. He thought they'd bought his cult victim story. Marcus'd taken them down to Colt's railway, shown them the church the hunters'd stayed in. The wealth of protective sigils and spray-painted circles had added veracity to the lie. No bodies but plenty of vehicle tracks and he'd told them they'd staged an intervention to get Ellie out, but it'd gone bad. They were waiting for Ellie and Sam to regain consciousness, to check their accounts but he'd gotten the impression it would be mostly formality. Unsurprisingly, the cult'd vanished without a trace.
They'd be here for a few more days. Sam needed the time, the risk of peritonitis still high, a given when the intestines were damaged. His thoughts turned again to where they could go when both had the all-clear. The cabin would be okay for a short time, possibly. Crowley'd known about it, but probably hadn't passed that information on to anyone else, too confident of his own power.
He looked around as the nurse came in, nodding as she smiled at him. She checked the monitors above the bed, noting the readings on the patient chart, then folded the covers down Ellie's body to her hips, lifting the gown and smearing a colourless gel carefully over her belly.
It was the second ultrasound they'd done, and Dean watched the scanner slide over the skin, glancing at the images that appeared on the small black and white monitor. He couldn't make out anything, but the nurse nodded encouragingly, wiping the scanner, then Ellie's skin, clean of the gel, smoothing down the hospital gown and drawing up the covers.
"She's doing very well, and so is the baby," she said quietly to him, marking the test on the chart and leaving. "Dr Emmet will be in to see her before shift ends."
He rubbed over his face with the heel of his hand, the sore grittiness of his eyes exacerbated by the dryness of the hospital air. He needed sleep, bad enough to be able to taste it, but he didn't want to close his eyes again. Couldn't deal with what might sneak in while he was defenceless, he admitted to himself.
The last few days were a mess. Propping his head against his hand, elbow resting on the side of the bed, he stared sightlessly across the room. They'd been to Hell, he thought, holding the memories of the third level firmly at bay. He wondered irritably if whichever entity was fucking with his life was sitting back and having a good laugh at the way he was being forced to revisit some of his worst memories in the flesh.
Glancing at Ellie's face, he let out a soft exhale. She'd been to Hell, more than once or twice. A lot more. And the first time had been to find a way to get him out.
He didn't know what to do with that.
It's real. The only way to break the contract is to kill her, and we can do it.
2008. Not more than a month before the deal would fall due, and he and Sam'd been crossing the country, looking for something, anything, to break it without his brother dropping dead. He'd asked her why she'd gone to all that trouble to save him. She'd told him she didn't want him to die. He wiped a hand over his jaw, the stubble prickling on his fingers. There hadn't been time to ask her more.
Six months later, she'd been in Chicago. Alive. Trying to save the same seal they were. She hadn't told him much about that six months. She'd looked tired in the boy's apartment and he remembered her telling him she'd been in Egypt the day before. They hadn't talked about what she'd been doing.
"Mr Smith?"
He blinked, turning to look over his shoulder. Dr Emmet stood there.
"Uh, yeah."
"You should get some rest," she said, walking into the room and taking the chart from the foot of the bed.
He nodded noncommittally, letting his gaze fall to the steady rise and fall of Ellie's chest beneath the lightweight cotton blanket. He heard the breathy sigh of the doctor as she moved up the bed to look at the readings.
"Physically, she's responding well," Dr Emmet said, a few moments later, adding a couple of notes to the chart and signing it. "But I have to recommend a psychiatric exam as well."
He looked up, brows knitting together.
Dr Emmet looked at him for a long moment, then set the chart down, reaching to lift Ellie's right arm from the bed. He looked at the fine white scar that was the twin to the one under the bandage on her left.
"I believe you didn't have anything to do with her injuries, Mr Smith," she said, lowering Ellie's arm. "But the scars – new and old – on her body are suggestive of a disturbing pattern of harm. Psychological damage, emotional damage, and that must be addressed."
He ducked his head. Bullet wounds, knife wounds, claw marks, bites … they all lay under the fresh cuts and bruising Crowley'd left on her. There was no way to explain them, any more than he could explain the why or wherefore of the clear torture she'd endured.
"I'm sorry, but it's out of my hands," Dr Emmet said, her tone subdued.
"Yeah."
He watched her leave the room from under his brows, letting his breath out when the door closed behind her.
This child has been abused! … we'll have to call Social Services … the cops are on their way … gunshot wounds have to be reported … we need a parent's signature … how can we contact your parents? … where is your father?
He'd had plenty of practice lying to doctors, nurses, lawyers, cops and social service counsellors, he thought, knuckling his eyes. There was no reason for it to feel like it was getting harder.
It didn't matter. It would be out of the doc's hands. The minute his brother and Ellie were stable enough to move, they'd be gone.
Shifting in the chair, he leaned back to ease the ache in the muscles there. The Hidden Door, she'd said. The Macdonalds would be able to keep them out of sight. Was that even a problem anymore, he wondered? Crowley was dead and Dwight had suggested whatever demons were out and topside had been called back for the change in management.
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms up, feeling the pull through shoulders and back. The impact he'd had with the tree had settled down to a dull throb, muscular only, he thought.
They needed a base. It'd take some time for Sam to be fit again. Him too if he wanted to be honest with himself about it, and Ellie had to move. Again. They needed a place to retreat to, someplace they could protect. He thought of the Campbell compound and he frowned unconsciously. He didn't really want to live off the map and surrounded by razor wire fences. Didn't want to raise his kid that way, home-schooled in paranoia and guerrilla training.
Life is ours, we live it our way.
Our way. He mulled over the idea, wondering if Ellie'd already thought about all that, had something in mind. Probably, he acknowledged with a reluctant smile. She liked to be prepared.
It made what she'd said even less understandable, but he didn't want to think about that, those years. They'd talk about it. Later. Someday.
Leaning on the edge of the bed, he tucked her hand between both of his and rested his chin on his knuckles. The coffee in the place was crap, but what it lacked in taste, it made up for in bitter caffeinated content. He'd need another cup if he was going to keep his eyes open. He didn't move, his gaze on Ellie's face.
After everything I've done for this family, I think I'm entitled. Truth is, I'm tired, Sam.
"You have no idea how much complete crap I convinced myself of, Ellie," he said, his voice low as he looked at her. "Told myself I'd done it, y'know. Saved Sam, finished my job and that was all that mattered." He gave her a sour one-sided smile.
"Everything'd gotten screwed up, Dad disappearing and Jess dyin', then finding out something was going on with Sam. We lost Jim and Caleb and that felt like half my family'd gone, right there." He chewed on the corner of his lip. "I was mad at Dad. He didn't tell me anything, not even at the end. Just left me, all the guilt for his sacrifice cutting a bit deeper every fucking day. I gave him everything I had, everything I was, and it wasn't enough."
He sucked in a breath. "Wasn't 'til I saw Ben, 'til I – uh – thought he might've been mine – that I got a – uh – uh, a glimpse, maybe – of what I might've wanted, y'know. If things had gone a different way."
"I mean, you know all this, right? I don't need to tell you," he said, his gaze cutting across to the monitors. "I didn't think about it with Lisa. I – uh – couldn't tell her a lie. Couldn't add that lie to all the others, anyway."
Looking back at her, he lifted his head a little, reaching out to smooth a stray strand of hair back from her forehead. Against the stark white of the hospital pillow, her hair was still tangled and filthy, clumped with blood. They hadn't washed it. He let his fingers move feather-light along her hairline, down to her jaw.
"I remembered the stuff you were taking," he said. "Sam looked it up. Nearly fell on my ass when the answer came back. That one didn't hit my radar at all."
He shook his head. "I wanted to get in the car and drive straight back. Probably wouldn't've mattered, I mean, it was probably too late, even then …"
"… Sam, uh, thought I should think about it first." He closed his eyes, his fingers curling more closely around her hand. "I did. Think about it. Took most of the night."
"I wanted to talk to you," he said. "Hell, about all of it. It felt like – I – uh – needed to know what you were thinking, what you … uh … wanted. Took off early next morning and –"
The feelings he'd locked up when he'd seen the sulphur on the doorstep, the door open, came back, unexpectedly, log-jamming in his chest and throat. Everyone leaves you, Dean, you notice? There were times when it felt true.
"Crowley –" The word came out in a croak, and he swallowed hard against the obstruction in his airways. "Uh, Crowley, he caught up with us in Kalispell."
With the demon's death, the crawling sense of the images he'd planted had gone. His recall of them was still there, but he couldn't be ambushed again, he'd thought. Except in his sleep, he amended silently.
"He, uh, whammied me." He ducked his head, looking at the bandage around her arm. "Some kind of spell, Bobby said. It, uh, it …"
He trailed off, mouth thinning and twisting as he tried to box up what he'd been forced to see into something he could say out loud, something he could get out and be done with.
"I – he – he – uh – gave me a preview," he got out, keeping the memories vague and blurry, off in the distance. "Everything he'd do to you, if I didn't hold up my end."
For a long moment, the room felt airless, suffocating, and he tried to fill his lungs, ribs aching with the effort of breath sucked in as deep as he could. In Hell, Alastair'd poked and pried through his memories, had used the people he loved to rend and tear at him, making him see them down there. Demon magic. Hell's ability to use whatever the mind brought with it. It'd been terrifying, and agonising, but most of the time, he'd known it wasn't real. They hadn't been down there and he'd clung to that knowledge. When Crowley'd done the same thing, he hadn't been able to use that escape. He'd tried to not believe, but the possibility of it had been as much a part of the torture as the images. Detailed, stomach-turningly realistic, and layered over what he'd already seen in the demon's mirror, he hadn't been able to fully convince himself Crowley hadn't already done it.
He lifted his head. "Thought I had a pretty good pain threshold, y'know?" he told her. "Turns out, not so much."
But the kicker hadn't been what he'd seen. It'd been what he'd felt. Helpless. Hopeless. Unable to protect what he loved most, unable to fight for what he'd thought he'd believed in. Useless. He'd wanted to give up. Wanted everything to end, right then.
It hadn't occurred until a lot later that was probably the point of the spell. At the time, the way he'd seen himself had been worse than at any other time in his life.
"I figured, y'know, it was supposed to make me quit," he said, his voice softening. "When Bobby broke it, I – ah, y'know – I thought about it."
Not the man he'd wanted to be. Not the man his father was. Not strong enough. Good enough. Brave enough. Smart enough. But she'd needed him, and she'd always believed in him, and in those moments when fear'd been strumming him and despair'd been less than a heartbeat away, he'd found something. Something he'd thought had been gone for good. Something of himself.
He'd thought it was the man she could always see in him.
"If I gave up again," he said, catching the corner of his lip and chewing on it as he hunted for what he needed to say. "I – couldn't – uh – couldn't've lived with myself. Couldn't see the road, y'know?"
She might not've needed his protection. But she needed him. And he couldn't – could not – live without her. That dark road was existing, day to day, more and more careless, more and more reckless of everything, until one day, luck ran out. When he'd looked at that future, he'd thought that day wouldn't take long to arrive. He didn't think he'd put up much of a fight when it did.
He straightened in the chair, drawing in a deep breath and ignoring the spasm his back gave. Everything else … trying to save him … trying to raise him … what she'd done when he'd been in Cicero … he understood. Distantly, somewhere way at the back of his mind, all the implications had resolved into a certainty, but it was one he couldn't look at yet.
He stared at the monitors, then dropped his gaze to her hand, held between his. "We're not doing this anymore, okay?" he said in a mumble, chin tucked against his chest. "You think I get a shot at a future every day? You think I'm gunna give that up without a fight?"
Huffing out an impatient exhale, he said, "It's crazy, this, uh, what we're doin', flyin' solo, getting fucked up 'cause we're – uh … you need me – don't even try to argue that – an' I need you. That's it. Nothing else matters, right?"
Ellie's fingers twitched against his and he turned his head, staring at her. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips parted slightly, the indrawn breath audible. He shifted abruptly to the edge of the chair.
"Ellie? Ellie, you awake?"