A/N: Twenty one pages. It ended up being TWENTY ONE EXTRA PAGES, GUYS. And damn it, I can't even break it into two cuz it's just not a good chapter for that. So I present to you the Mother of All Chapters because my muse haaaaates me. Seriously. Does she even know I have a social life?!
(I'm just kidding. I don't have a social life.)
*head thud* *head thud* *head thud*
Chapter Warnings: Oh for the love of- it's the end of the world, what else is new?
Actual Chapter Warnings: Croats are being Croats (aka, zombies, reavers, crappy next door neighbors, you get the idea), Dean is being Dean (aka, two steps forward, one step back), Hell is being Hellish (aka, did no one explain the first two seasons to them? There's only supposed to be, like, one of them out and about at a time), and poor Sam and Andy should never have come along for this ride (aka, when your brother from the future tells you it's a trap, it's a mother friggin' trap!)
Actual Actual Chapter Warnings: Um...lots of death in this one.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
The Road So Far (This Time Around)
Season 2: Chapter 42
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
They rounded the corner onto Main Street, not two blocks to go to the medical clinic, when Dean drew up short, gun raised and trained on the newest threat, the barrel of a Remington Model 700 bolt-action rifle looking him dead in the face. The older, dark-skinned, defensive face behind it was a familiar one.
"Easy there, Sarge," Dean said calmly but firmly, slowly pulling away from Andy so he could step in front of the bleeding kid defensively. As soon as his arm was free, he kept a two handed grip on his weapon, trained on the Master Sargent standing in front of them, blocking their path to the clinic. The man from the future had to hope that Time – the same Time that wanted to stay the same – wasn't fucking with them right now. The sergeant had been clean last time. And Dean was about to take a mighty big risk assuming he was clean this time, too. "Put it down, big guy."
"You first," the Sarge responded, jaw squared and finger tight on the trigger. "How the hell do you know who I am, huh?"
Dean took one hand off his gun, still coated in Andy's blood, and held it up placatingly. He didn't lower his weapon but he at least he made it clear it would only be fired in self-defense. The hunter nodded at the man's arm, sleeves rolled up past the elbow. "Your tattoo. My dad was in the Corps. Now look, man, I know, you've probably seen some weird shit tonight, but we're not the enemy here."
Sergeant Master Mark Vago stared down the unknown and armed man in front of him, before his eyes darted to the two men behind the blond. The taller one was holding up the other, a flagging kid with a blood-soaked right arm. Mark hesitated, realizing that the kid, at least, was no threat. Making a tactical assessment, the Master Sargent released the trigger and raised his gun to port arms, barrel resting against his shoulder. Across from him, the blond lowered his weapon as well.
"What the hell is going on?" Mark asked, not taking his eyes off the three, still weary of the strangers who'd shown up in town just shortly before this all went down. "I can't find anyone. It's a ghost town. The damn coffee mugs were still steaming in the Diner, like people just-"
"Up and vanished," the blond in front of him finished for him, and Mark stared at him. Uncertainty warred against the illusion of comfort that came with no longer being alone in a ghost town that, hours ago, had been his friendly, happy home.
"What the hell is going on?" he repeated, hand still tight on his rifle. He used it to gesture to the ailing member of their group. The kid was bleeding from what could be a gunshot wound, but these two were the only ones left around to do any shooting. "What happened to him?"
"A cop turned on him," the taller one supplied, adjusting his grip as the kid leaned more heavily into him. He was bleeding pretty bad. Mark knew they weren't far from the Doc Lee's office and wondered if that's where these boys had been headed. "Tried to kill us."
"No," Mark shook his head. "No way. I know every cop in this town. They're good people."
The blond suddenly tucked his gun into the back of his pants, apparently deciding the Master Sargent wasn't a threat worth dealing with, and pushed past him. "Not tonight, they aren't."
The taller one took it as his cue and followed after, helping the bleeding kid along. Mark watched them past, not ready to take action against the only living souls he'd seen in the last twenty minutes, but also not ready to trust them.
The ragtag group didn't make it five feet when hurried footsteps coming from behind them all had everyone, Mark included, spinning around. The blond redrew his weapon in a grip as tight as Mark's as the Sarge trained his rifle on the unknown threat. The street in front of them was empty, but it didn't stay that way for long. The pounding feet got louder and a man in an officer's uniform rounded the corner, coming to a halt as he spotted them.
Mark blinked, pulling his head from the sight of his gun to stare at Officer Kyle Mason, staring them from a dozen feet away with wide eyes. They were black. His eyes were completely black, there was blood on his face, and he was glaring at them with lethal intent, none of which made a lick of sense. Mark didn't mean to lower his gun, but he was clearly seeing things. There was a god damn bullet hole in Kyle's head, for Christ's sake, yet there he stood: chest heaving, murder in his impossibly black eyes.
"What the hell…"
"Where do you think you're going, Winchesters?" the thing that was not Kyle Mason seethed, a tight and wrong grin stretching across his face.
The blond with the ivory-inlaid gun – Winchester, apparently – opened his mouth and started speaking nonsense. Another language. It made Kyle twitch and shudder, and that look in his black eyes got, if possible, a thousand times darker. Then Officer Mason was charging, and Sarge fired before he could think about the consequences of killing a man he'd known his whole life.
Kyle took two to the chest and one to the neck (from Winchester's gun), but he just kept coming.
"Get out of here!" the blond yelled, seemingly at the charging officer, but it was his companions that took off down the street, right before the black-eyed man was on them. Winchester took the tackle to the ground and for one, single, long minute, Mark just stared at the two men grappling on the sidewalk.
He'd shot Kyle Mason center mass, and yet there he was. Wrestling this stranger with clear intent to kill.
Mark raised the butt of his rifle and slammed it into Kyle's back, part of him apologizing even as the man he knew well spun at him and hissed like some kind of wild animal. His eyes were jet black, no whites to wait for, and the Sargent stumbled back in pure shock.
Then Kyle was twitching again, face convulsing in micro-spasms. Those black eyes turned down the street, where Winchester's companions had stopped a few yards away. The tall one was still supporting their injured friend, but he had picked up the babbled jargon the other Winchester had dropped. Latin, Mark realized, recognizing the odd word among the ramble of sounds.
Kyle's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Mark was too busy staring in horror at the black smoke leaking out of the corners of his mouth and eyes. The Master Sargent took another step back, gripping his gun and raising it up, prepared to fire once more even as the logical part of his brain, the part trained by years in the Corps, told him if it hadn't worked the first time it sure as hell wasn't going to work the second. Waste of ammo.
But then the thing that wasn't Kyle Mason threw back his head and billows of black smoke flew out of him like a miniature tornado. When the last of the smoke had fled him, Kyle collapsed, and Mark didn't need to check his pulse to know he was dead.
"What the hell," he muttered in horror, grip on his gun white-knuckled at best. Pushing off the corpse of a man Mark had joined on the baseball pitch more than a dozen years running, the blond let his head fall back against the pavement, rubbing at his chest as he caught his breath. "What the hell is going on!"
Winchester rolled onto his stomach and climbed to his feet quickly. "More than we got time to explain." He grabbed his gun from where it had clattered on the ground in the firefight and straightened up. He nodded to his companions, who stood a half block away, alert and cautious of the now-quiet street around them. "I'm Dean, that's my brother Sam, and the kid needs medical attention, now. You can come with us or take your chances."
With that, Dean Winchester pushed past the Sargent to join his companions and the three headed the last block towards the medical clinic. Mark hesitated only a moment, looking down at the body of Kyle Mason for an excruciatingly long minute, before he followed after the boys.
-o-o-o-
The Clinic doors were in sight when movement on their peripheral had Dean and the Sarge training guns on a pair of figures across the street and a block up, walking their way. It was a leisurely pace, but nothing about their body language said evening stroll and Dean found himself backing towards the clinic. Beside him, Sam reached for the gun Andy muttered was under his shirt, pulling it and training it on the pedestrians.
"I know them," the Sarge said in recognition, straightening from the rifle sight but not lowering the gun. He'd known Kyle Mason, too, and look how that could have turned out.
"No, pal, you really don't," Dean grumbled as he reached behind him for the door handle. Just as he hooked his fingers around the metal, a figure stepped out of the doorway of the next store over.
"Mark!" the man in a green wind breaker and blue jeans greeted jovially, like it was just another cheery Saturday afternoon. His eyes were normal – circles of blue surrounded by pure white – but something else about his face in the descending darkness was all wrong. He was holding an object down by his side, and Mark realized belatedly it was a hatchet. Alarm bells started ringing. "Where you been, buddy? I've been looking for you."
Dean didn't bother asking questions. He shot first, taking the Croat down with one between the eyes. The two across the street broke into a charge, feet pounding their way. Swearing, the hunter threw open the clinic door, holding it open as his brother hobbled inside with Andy.
"Let's go, Sarge!" he screamed, and Mark, staring in wide-eyed horror at the body of his neighbor, visibly gathered himself and darted inside. The main building that housed the medical clinic consisted of a long hallway, lined with offices on either side. Dr. Lee's was the first door on the right. It was already open, and Mark could see Sam lowering the kid down in a chair just inside.
Dean bolted the glass doors behind them, Mark turning to help. Sam joined them seconds later, hauling two waiting room chairs with him. They lodged them under the handles of the locked doors just before the two Croats slammed into the glass. Mark jumped, staggering away from the doors, worried they would give. But their attackers, something not right in their eyes, just slinked away into the darkness, as if they had never been there to begin with.
They left the body of his neighbor lying on the sidewalk, feet away.
"That-" Mark ran a hand over his mouth, the other shaking with how tightly he gripped the barrel of his gun. "That was my neighbor, Mr. Rogers. With the hatchet…"
"You have a neighbor named Mr. Rogers?"
Mark turned at the unfamiliar and slurred voice. The injured kid hadn't stayed in down for long; he was leaning heavily in the doorway of the clinic, propping it open. He had one hand wrapped around his bleeding arm, the other gripping a gun – the one the taller man had been holding – in a trembling hand. Blood dripped down the barrel and hit the floor with a plop, plop, plop.
"Not anymore, he doesn't."
Dean pushed past the Master Sargent, his brother following and the two helped the kid further into the doctor's office. Mark glanced at the vulnerable glass doors, all that was between them and whatever the hell was wrong with the people of his town. He quickly followed after the only sane men left.
"Those aren't going to hold long," he announced as he shut and locked the main door of Dr. Lee's business. It, too, was comprised of far too much glass for his liking. The whole damn building was, something he'd never once worried about before this night. He hadn't thought he'd ever have to worry about those sorts of things at home.
"They won't come in here." The mysterious words, spoken with the confidence of a man who knew far more than he was letting on, didn't do much to put Mark at ease. He stared at Dean Winchester, this mystery man, as he got the kid settled. His brother started towards the patient rooms for supplies when one of the doors swung open.
Mark had his rifle up and ready to fire as Pamela Clayton, Dr. Lee's assistant, rushed into the waiting room, straight into the taller Winchester man. Sam reached out to steady the young woman before she could crash into him completely.
"Sam?" Dean hollered from the other side of the waiting room where he couldn't see what had drawn the taller Winchester up short.
"I'm fine- it's fine." Sam answered. The young nurse looked scared, and Sam immediately released her, though he kept his arms up and open, as non-threatening as possible given the way he towered over the much smaller woman.
"What's going on? Who are you?"
Sam went for a calm, encouraging smile, taking a step back to give her some space. "It's okay, we just need some help. Is the doctor here?"
The young woman blinked up at him, then glanced around his large frame to the others. Across the room, a tense Dean met her eyes and his own hardened. Pam straightened back up, hiding her frame behind Sam's unassumingly. "No, Dr. Lee…I think she went home for the night? I-I was on break, and when I got back…"
"She was just gone," Mark finished for her, nodding, because the story fit with everything else. Hell, he was just happy to see Pam was alright. He slung his rifle strap over his shoulder as the nurse glanced nervously between the gathered, armed men. His encouraging smile seemed to put Pam at better ease, and she relaxed somewhat, though she clasped and unclasped her hands in a nervous fidget.
"I can try calling her, if you'd like?"
Smiling as calmly as he could, Sam shook his head. He was about to bluff his way into getting this woman to give them the supplies they needed to patch Andy up himself when he heard his brother's hit-the-deck voice from behind.
"Sam, get out of the way!"
The younger Winchester didn't think twice about the order. Sam spun three steps to the left, in perfect synchronization with the double firing of his brother's gun. The nurse who'd stared up at him with wide, scared eyes, dropped to the ground with two to the chest. A perfect double-tap; she hadn't stood a chance.
"What the hell!" Mark yelled, rifle up and trained on the man who now seemed to be killing just about anyone in the town that didn't have a damn Marine Corps tattoo.
Sam pulled his backup from his boot, training it on the man even as Andy, God bless him, raised Sam's primary weapon. The thing shook in his hand, barrel jumping all over the place, but it was still largely trained on the man threatening Dean.
"Put it down, Sarge," Dean said for the second time that night.
"You just killed Pam, in cold blood! How many of these town folk are you gonna murder tonight?" he demanded, not lowering his weapon as he stared the killer and stranger down.
"She was infected."
"Infected?" Mark pulled his head back, a tight frown crossing his face. He didn't need line of sight to shoot this man if he had to.
"She was one of them," Dean rephrased, head gesturing towards the glass doors and the threat lurking just beyond, somewhere out there in the dark.
The Sarge wet his lips nervously, finger rubbing back and forth across the trigger. "How do you know? Her eyes weren't black."
"Neither were your neighbors." A determined green gaze – a confident gaze if the Master Sargent had ever seen one – stayed locked on him. "Trust me. I just know."
Mark wasn't quite sure why he believed him. Maybe it was because he didn't feel like he could believe anything, really, so what was the point? Either way, he slowly – very slowly – lowered his rifle. The room seemed to let out a collective breath; the poor kid still bleeding out in the chair dropped his gun so completely it clattered to the ground with a sharp metallic clatter that damn near caused everyone to jump..
"Andy," Sam muttered, crossing back over to him, weapon lowered as well. He was pale and shaking, and Sam was surprised he'd kept any sort of grip with that hand. Andy was practically limp wristed by the time Sam took his pulse. "Shit, Dean, he's losing too much blood."
The blond continued eyeing Mark for a moment more before he tucked his gun back into his jeans and took off for the back rooms. He had to step over Pam's body, and Mark stared down at the poor girl.
"How could he possibly know?"
He hadn't asked it aloud for an answer. He hadn't even asked it aloud knowingly. But the taller of the two brothers – Sam – answered him as he stripped the hoodie off the injured kid, holding pressure to what was now very obviously a gunshot wound to his upper arm. A gunshot wound given to him by Kyle Mason. Sweet, naïve, cheerful Kyle Mason who was the shortstop on the town's leisure baseball team, who stayed after every game to hand out ice cream to the kids, who had wanted to be a cop since he was six and had followed that dream just four years earlier. Mark really couldn't believe it. But he was a practical man; he believed what he could see and touch. And he'd sure as hell seen Kyle attack the older Winchester, seen him take two sure-fired shots to the chest, and he'd sure as shit felt the butt of his rifle connect with the man's back.
"You should trust him on this."
"Yeah," the kid – Andy, was it? – mumbled from his slumped position, obviously flagging due to blood loss and what looked to be shock setting in. Sam was doing his best to rally his friend's wakefulness. Given the drooping of his eyelids, the shallow rise and fall of too-fast breaths, and the heavy slur to his words, it was a losing battle. Still, he managed a weak-ass giggle as he continued, "He's psychic."
He said it like a joke, and the Sarge couldn't help but think it was a terrible time for laughs. Shock did funny things to people, though. He'd seen that and so much more from men in the field who'd taken far worse hits they'd never recovered from. Sam's already concerned expression was growing worse.
Mark ignored the comment for the blood loss talking that it clearly was as Dean came back, arms full of medical supplies. While the two brothers got to work on the kid, the Sarge directed his attention to the older of the two, who seemed a man in charge and sure as shit more knowledgeable than Mark currently felt. He resisted the urge to glance back at Pamela Clayton's body for a third time. "I need to know what's going on, and I need to know it right now."
The unimpressed and annoyed look Dean sent his way was not necessarily a surprise, but it was always a little unsettling when Mark encountered a civilian immune to the command voice of Master Sargent Vago. His unit used to tell tall tales of what that tone could get done with words alone.
"We think it's a virus," the occupied man answered tersely as he cleaned the bullet wound while Sam got to work stitching a cut up the back of his arm. The kid was busy chasing down painkillers with a bottle of water, both of which Dean had found in the back. It wasn't the good stuff, but it was what they had.
"A virus." No way a virus had turned the good townsfolk of Rivergrove – his friends and neighbors – into…into whatever he'd seen back there. No virus turned a man's eyes black.
"O negative?" the taller of the brothers asked, holding up a bag of blood and line that Dean had brought along with the other supplies. The other Winchester nodded and Sam started hooking Andy up to the fresh supply. The clinic's provisions were as small as the town, but that didn't make them nonexistent. In a few minutes, they had Andy's arm cleaned and bound, an IV inserted for a liquids, and the kid was drifting in and out of a drug-assisted, exhausted haze as he filled back up on blood.
Dean stood with a groan, rubbing at his right knee, which was stubbornly complaining about the time spent on the ground after a hard run and two separate roll-arounds on the ground. He turned to the Master Sargent. "Will you watch him for a minute? I need a word with my brother."
Mark nodded and Dean headed towards a quieter corner of the waiting room rather than one of the back rooms, Sam following. The Sarge appreciated the man's instincts not to leave his sight. Clearly, they still didn't trust one another, but Mark preferred it that way at this point. There were too many unanswered questions. Hesitantly, the marine moved towards the front windows, half an eye on the dozing kid, the other on the slit in the blinds to the outside world.
They were still out there, his neighbors, standing on street corners and just at the edges of the encroaching darkness. They weren't doing much but staring right back at him. With general unease at the situation as a whole, Mark released the blinds and moved back to the kid.
-o-o-o-
"This is where we ended up last time?" Sam asked immediately once they had stepped away from Andy and the Sarge. He crossed his arms over his chest, partially from the cold November night and an overly air-conditioned doctor's office, partially because this was a messed up situation and he still wasn't quite prepared to see the blank rage in a civilians eyes as they charged at you with a hatchet. Or the fear in Andy's as he slowly bled out.
Dean had tried to warn him, but some things just had to be experienced to carry the full weight of horror.
"Of course it is," Dean answered bitterly, because why would Time allow for anything else? With a frustrated growl, the man from the future quickly recapped the events that had taken place in the medical clinic in his timeline. Sam cast a look over his shoulder at the downed nurse, lying in a puddle of red. He wondered if she would have attacked him then and there, had Dean not interfered. It didn't sound like it from his brother's retelling of events. It sounded like this had been a longer term play on Azazel's part, not a hasty setup.
"The whole thing ended a couple hours after Nurse Benedict Arnold over there infected you." Dean nodded his head Pam's way, a dark look in his eyes. He had no second thoughts about putting her down quick. "Everyone just up and vanished and we walked out of here like the whole damn thing never happened."
Across from him, Sam frowned. "So it was a test?"
Dean shrugged. They sure as hell hadn't known that back then, but now? Now he thought Hell wanted to know their golden boy was immune. No point in sending a virus out into the world if it killed Lucifer's precious vessel.
"But…they infected Andy," Sam continued, dropping his voice as both brothers glanced over to their resident third wheel. "He hasn't turned, shouldn't that be proof enough for them?"
The older Winchester bit the inside of his cheek, and Sam's eyes immediately narrowed at it and at the lack of eye contact.
"What?"
Dean let out more of a growl than a sigh, and rubbed a hand viciously over his scalp. "Some people didn't turn immediately. Doc said the incubation period was four hours."
There was something else Dean wasn't telling him, but Sam could tell he was working up to it. So Sam waited him out until his older brother made a frustrated noise that ultimately ended in another sigh.
"We never found out what made you immune."
It took a moment for the younger Winchester to follow the train of thought, but he stiffened when he found its inevitable end point. "What- it has to be the demon blood! Doesn't it?"
The fidgety older hunter shrugged defensively, but it was clear all his anger and frustration weren't directed at Sam. "We always assumed it was, but…"
"What else could it possibly be?" Sam asked, voice aggressive, born from fear and exhaustion and the unknown. Across from him, Dean got just as hostile.
"I don't know, Sam, how about your ability to host a friggin' archangel for starters?"
Sam faltered at that. The words were angry and bitter, but Sam knew it to be the same damn thing he was feeling and nothing personal. The younger Winchester deflated as his brother's point sunk in. His gaze dropped to the floor.
If that was true, if it hadn't been the demon blood but the angelic blood, however faint in his veins, that made him immune, that made him Lucifer's true vessel…
"Andy could turn," Sam finished the thought aloud, dawning horror reaching his eyes as he looked back at the bloodied kid. Dozing lightly, Andy would moan or twitch on occasion and Sam wondered, partly in fear, what exactly he was dreaming about.
They didn't have the coin, Sam realized abruptly. They'd left the coin safely in the trunk of the Impala. Sam's eyes widened as he stared at the other psychic – at Azazel's other kid – and realized the demon could be talking to him right now.
"We need to wake him up," Sam muttered, moving to do just that when Dean caught his arm. He turned back to his brother, but while Dean looked grim, he didn't look as panicked as Sam felt.
"It's gotta be the demon blood, Sam." There was anguish in those green eyes but also a determination formed by sheer force of will. Dean Winchester was going to will that to be the truth or so help him. Sam relaxed a fraction of an inch under his grip. "It's gotta be. He's immune, and Hell hasn't ended this freak show because they gotta see that you are too."
"Okay," the younger Winchester agreed quietly, casting another furtive glance Andy's way. Like his brother, he willed himself to believe their friend would be alright. "Then what now? Should I just…head out there and get it over with? Let one of them infect me?"
Dean shuddered at the words, skin blanching as he pulled away from his brother and struggled not to react as explosively as he wanted to. No, they were absolutely not doing that, in any way shape or form. That was not an idea he was on board with.
When he expressed as much, calmly (well, sort of), Sam only shrugged, otherwise without another idea. Not like he'd been all that serious about it to start. "Well…what else we got?"
Squat. They had jack squat, which was kind of the problem. Last time it had been Nurse Betty over there that did the deed, but Dean had seen to that problem. Which left them with a whole new set of issues, just like every other time they'd altered the timeline. You'd think they'd learn.
Before Dean could spitball any ideas, good or bad, the Sarge was calling them across the room. The brothers took off, worried for the worst, and got to Andy's side in about ten strides each (okay, eight strides in the case of the long-legged-freak that was the younger Winchester).
"What is it?" Sam asked, immediately crouching down beside their friend, who had regained consciousness. He swallowed back the next question, not wanting to alert the armed Master Sarge to Andy's possible condition, and instead wrapped his hand around the kid's wrist. His pulse was better, but still weak. "How're you feeling?"
"Definitely…been better," the kid answered, eyes half-drooped and chin slumped against his chest. There were dark circles under his eyes, his skin wasn't quite the right color, and he sounded exhausted. The blood loss, pain, and painkillers could explain all that. But then again, so could the early stages of turning into an angry zombie. The kid's eyes widened somewhat as he struggled to stay awake. "You guys g-gotta…lock me up."
"You're fine, kid." Dean, standing just behind his brother, leveled Andy with the kind of glare that dared him to say otherwise. Andy huffed.
"You don't know that," was his quiet reply, not that he was trying to be quiet.
"Yeah, I do."
Andy glanced up at him, a sad little furl forming between his brows. "Then why do you look so scared, man?"
Dean had to physically bite down on his tongue to keep from answering, and he looked away petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest without realizing it only added to the pouting child look.
To their left, Mark glanced between the three of them, and then he caught on. His rifle was in both hands in an instant, partially raised but not yet focused at the injured kid. For good reason, too. His instincts had told him taking aim at the kid would have been a threat that ended in a bullet him. And that was with Mark considering himself a damn quick shot.
Sure enough, the older Winchester had his own gun drawn on the Marine in less than a second, and Sam moved between his half-raised rifle and Andy.
"Put it down, Sargent," Dean demanded, the look in his eyes giving Mark absolutely no doubt that he would follow through with shooting him. Whereas, the Sargent hadn't made up his mind about killing the kid. "Back off, Sarge, or we're gonna have a real problem."
"He's infected!" he half-protested anyway, because if it was true, if this man was about to turn like his neighbor, like his friends, then they couldn't risk waiting. To the kid's credit, Andy just stared tiredly up at him, as if he hadn't decided whose side he was on yet. As if he could side with Mark.
"He's immune." The barked words were more like a command, and the military man found his eyes leaving the target to focus on the older Winchester.
"Immune." His scoff was incredulous at best, but the rifle remained only half raised.
"We knew this was coming." As Sam spoke up, voice even and calm amid the storm of anger, all parties involved turned uncertain and surprised eyes to him. He was he half-crouched, arms raised, between Andy and the gun. Hazel eyes locked with Marks, and damn if they weren't just as serious, just as sure, as his brother's.
Mark's grip tightened on his gun. "What?"
"We knew," Sam reiterated, keeping the Master Sargent's attention on him and not Andy. Beside him, Dean was tense. "This is what we do, alright? The people we work for-"
"And just who the hell is that?" Mark interrupted, eyes continuously darting between the two brothers, ready for whichever made the next move. But Dean's eyes were on his brother. "FBI? CDC?"
"The kind of agency that doesn't have a name," the younger Winchester offered simply, and Dean had to once again admire his brother's bullshitting capabilities. Really, kid would have made one hell of a lawyer. "We got a tip about a possible biological weapon test in this town."
"Bullshit."
"Really?" Dean countered, eyeing the Sarge now that he knew Sam's play. "You think there's a better place to test a virus than a small town in the middle of nowhere? One road in, one road out, and probably only one friggin' cell tower to knock over to kill communication of the entire place."
Mark swallowed heavily and Sam lowered his arms a little further.
"We came here to check it out. Yes, Andy's infected, but-" The younger Winchester gestured cautiously at the kid, who was still staring up at the Sarge like he fully expected the man to end it- "he's immune. We all are; we were inoculated before we came."
The Sarge caught the glance both men sent the younger Winchester's way at that, and narrowed his eyes. He knew an omitted truth when he heard one. "But?"
Sam let his arms finally settle by his sides as the tension in the room, while still tense, wasn't at shoot-each-other-first-use-our-brains-and-communication-skills-second levels. "The immunization has never been tested in the field. Not fully."
He could see his spun story wasn't do all that much to settle the Marine's nerves, but Sam was also pretty sure he wasn't going to kill Andy anymore. At least not in the next few seconds.
"So here's what we'll do," he continued once it was obvious the Sarge wasn't calling him on his lie. "We're going to isolate him-" Sam raised a hand to silence his brother before Dean could get out much more than a growl or protest- "and wait out the incubation period."
Slowly, inch by inch, Mark lowered his rifle until it was pointed at the ground. "How long is that?"
Sam glanced sidelong at his brother. "About four hours."
The Master Sargent finally released his secondary grip on the barrel, rifle falling to his side. He was in no way alright with the situation, but even in the middle of what felt like the end of the world, he wasn't going to kill a kid in cold blood. Not without a damn good reason.
The younger Winchester nodded at him gratefully, then turned to help Andy to his feet.
"Sam-" Dean started, but that head of floppy brown hair just shook him into obedient silence. He stepped forward, taking the two IV bags Sam handed him, temporarily disconnecting them from the kid's elbow and hand. With his other arm wrapped under Andy's arm and around his back, Dean helped him towards one of the two patient rooms.
"We're not sure either, Dean," Sam finally explained, keeping his voice quiet not just for the Sarge watching them like a hawk, but for the exhausted and terrified psychic between them. Andy was a champ, pushing through this with everything he had, but Sam knew he was scared.
"I don't wanna turn you into Reavers," Andy mumbled, head still hanging down as they carried him into the small room and got him up on the cushioned table. He listed to the side, and both brothers realized that wasn't going to work. "Don't let me go full Reaver, guys."
"I don't even know what that is," Dean grumbled right back, trying for good natured but missing by a hair. Given the severity of the situation, he figured his frustration could be forgiven. Sam helped Andy back off the table while Dean grabbed a chair from the corner and put it in the middle of the room. Andy settled into it, hunched into himself and looking half his size. Still, he had the energy to stare up at Dean in wide-eyed horror as the older Winchester's words registered.
"You haven't seen Firefly?" Appalled, Andy shuddered and mourned for the poor, deprived man in front of him. His friend. How had he let his own friend go on living such an incomplete and meaningless life? Beside him, hooking the blood bag back up, Sam rolled his eyes affectionately. "Dude. You say my television education sucks. You're not even allowed to talk to me anymore."
"Oh, was that all it took?" Dean rolled his eyes and moved over to the only window in the small room.
Andy scoffed, but the sound ended in a pitiful whine. He reached up towards his bound arm, but Sam caught his hand before he could risk opening his stitches. Familiar with that kind of suffering, Sam squeezed Andy's hand tightly, all but encouraging him to do the same, as the kid rode out the wave of pain. At the window, Dean released the blinds after seeing nothing but the empty lot behind the building and instead started rooting around the room for a stronger painkiller.
"You guys gotta tie me up." As the pain subsided, Andy's words came out breathless. It was clear he had used what energy he had left. The poor kid really wasn't looking good, but that could be the blood loss and shock. Or it could be the virus. It was probably blood loss and shock. Dean was ready to protest, probably to tell him it was definitely-absolutely-no-way-anything-else-but blood loss and shock (like the kid might not be aware he was missing a quarter of his supply), but the look Andy pinned him with ended the change of topic before he could even get it started. "Come on, it's not worth the risk, and you know it."
Dean was silent for a moment, once again pouting angrily at the corner of the room. But it didn't take much of the silence, of the kid's shallow, labored breathing, before he gave in. Mirroring words Andy had once granted him in an interrogation room in Baltimore, Dean conceded, "I do know it."
So Sam found several lengths of rubber medical tube, probably used to tourniquet a limb when drawing blood, and started securing Andy to the chair. While he did, Dean summoned as much huffy exasperation as an older brother possibly could, and asked the kid what the hell 'Firefly' was all about. Nothing with that girly a name could be worth watching.
Well, that kept Andy plenty distracted from the current situation, so much so that Sam was done in no time at all.
The two brothers, Dean leaning out the door to check on the Sargent (who was keeping watch at the front windows), kept Andy talking for another ten minutes, mostly about this show that Sam actually had heard of before and Dean was begrudgingly starting to admit sounded pretty awesome, before their favorite Jedi fell morosely silent. Sam worried the full weight of the situation had finally settled in now that the kid was bound to a chair out of concern for turning into a rage-crazed, mindless monster. That was a lot for anyone to handle, but even Sam hadn't realized just what the full potential of that weight really was. Andy did.
"Will my powers still work?" The question was dazed at first, but then Andy swallowed and tried to straighten in the chair, panic hitting the edge of his voice. "If I turn, will I still be able to control people?"
The matching way Sam and Dean's eyes doubled in size might have been funny – might have been the sort of thing a little brother would have a good long laugh over – had the situation not been as truly terrifying as it was. Dean looked at Sam, blinking in that way of his that said One: he had no idea the answer and B: son of a bitch.
"Shit," was what he said out loud, and Sam swallowed reflexively, struggling through what should be such a simple bodily function.
"I'll stay with him." He said it softly, but the conviction in his words was strong. Dean cast an anguished look between him and Andy, realizing Sam's words meant Dean needed to leave. Leave his younger brother and a kid that had sort of earned an honorary brother spot in his heart over the last few months.
But Andy looked as scared as he ever did, and Dean knew, even as a mindless Croat, Andy would never forgive himself if he 'Reavered' them.
'Dumb name for a zombie', he'd muttered while Sam as tying the kid up.
'I think you mean awesome, you piece of goushi.'
Dean had to admit, any show that got away with swearing on live television by doing it in another language was probably worth watching. If only to learn all the naughty words.
Watching the kid they'd tied up in the middle of a doc's office, that they'd dragged into this mess to get shot at and cut up and infected, Dean couldn't do it. He didn't want to leave Andy alone with this. That's not what older brothers did. But as he looked back at Sam, who gave him a subtle nod of support, Dean realized that the kid would have an older brother with him.
With more emotion than the older Winchester was ever comfortable feeling and thoughts clear across the border of hair braiding and sleepovers, Dean pushed down his hesitation and nodded. "Alright. I'll keep watch with the Sarge. We'll…uh, we'll figure a way out once we're sure you're clear, alright?"
Andy nodded, obviously rallying every ounce of don't-show-them-you're-afraid-you-asked-for-this that he had in him. Still, Dean continued to stall, but he knew there was nothing for it. If Andy did turn, if it wasn't the demon blood that had made Sam immune but his bloodline as a vessel instead, if the kid did keep his powers as a Croat, Dean couldn't be there when it happened. He knew that. So he finally walked out of the small patient's room and, after a second's deliberation, swung the door mostly closed behind him. Worry still gnawed at his gut, for Andy, for Sam, so, at the last moment, he left it cracked. Just in case.
The kid would be fine. Because it was the demon blood that made Sam immune. It was, it was, it was. Dean released the door handle and made his way back to the lobby and their other tagalong.
-o-o-o-
The two men stood guard by the clinic's front windows, peaking through the blinds and aimlessly pacing the empty lobby in an excruciatingly tense and unpleasant hour. Between the threat outside and Sarge given him the distrusting, angry side-eye every six and a half minutes on the dot, the night wasn't exactly off to a great start.
Dean remembered liking the Sarge the last time. Respecting him, at the very least. He'd been glad the man had been among the few to survive, and had genuinely wished him well when he and the Tanner kid headed out of town the next morning. This time though…Dean wasn't sure if it was just the changes they'd enacted – the more limited Croat breakout that meant the Sarge hadn't seen his neighbors tearing each other apart, or maybe that the majority of what Mark had seen was Dean gunning down those neighbors in cold blood – but Dean was starting to worry about the possibility of more having changed than just what he and Sam had so far caused.
Okay, so maybe half of the Sarge's looks were purely in response to the distrustful side-eye Dean sent his way every six minutes on the dot.
But the man from the future was sickof being one step behind Hell and another two behind Time. Sick of it. He wasn't trusting anything anymore, and that included a man that hadn't been infected last time.
He turned on his heel at the end of the row of waiting chairs, the third up and down line he'd made in about half as many minutes, and faced the Sarge. Dean opened his mouth, probably to start something he'd either regret because the man was nothing but an ordinary human terrified out of his mind at his quaint little home town ripping itself apart, or because he was a croat or a demon. The latter of which Dean was hardly prepared to fight.
He was damn sick of that too. As soon as they survived this nightmare and got out of Rivergrove, he was finding a damn demon knife or an angel blade. Fuck it. Other versions than Ruby's had to exist somewhere on the planet.
The sudden eruption of banging terrified cries for help coming from the front door stopped both men, who immediately rounded towards the noise, guns up.
"Hey! Let me in, let me in! Please!"
Dean frowned at the flash of déjà vu and the not-completely-unfamiliar voice. He realized who it was even as he followed the Sarge out into the main hallway of the building.
"It's Duane Tanner!" Mark exclaimed, but the pleasant surprise quickly turned into suspicion. He hesitated at the sight of the Tanner's oldest kid, pounding on the glass door, terror in his eyes and desperation on his face. Mark had seen enough tonight not to fall for it so quickly.
Winchester, on the other hand, pushed right past him, grabbing one of the chairs they'd formed a blockade with and tossing it aside. He opened the left door to the clinic, ushering the kid in without so much as a demanded explanation for where he'd been or how he'd found them. Duane Tanner limped gratefully into the quiet space, sliding his camping pack off his back as he did so.
"Thank god."
"You're bleeding," Mark said, suddenly twice as wary as he had been. Dean was putting the chair back under the handle of the door, wedging it into place.
Duane's eyes dropped down to his leg, where his pants leg was ripped clean through and he had a good two, three inch cut along his shin. A little frown pulled at his brow but the kid didn't look very worried about it. "I was running. I…I saw Roger McGill being dragged out of his house by people we know! They started cutting him with knives! So I ran. I…must have tripped."
Mark shook his head, rifle raising once more but not quite trained on the kid. He still wouldn't kill without a damn good reason, but he was starting to worry he had one.
"He's not infected," Dean announced, like he was some sort of damn oracle when it came to who in this town was a madman. The Winchester man left it at that, pushing past the two to head back into Dr. Lee's office.
"Infected?" Duane echoed with a new look of terror and confusion coming across his face. "Infected by what?"
"What do you mean, 'he's not infected'?" Mark parodied back, angrily following after the man he'd just about had enough with. Dean Winchester talked like he was a damn authority on whatever the hell was happening to Mark's town, but he refused to explain anything. Mark was done buying it.
"Exactly what I said," Dean answered tersely, that condescending tone back in his voice that grated on the Marine's last nerve. "He's not infected."
The Marine Sargent wet his lips, grip tightening and loosening against the trigger and butt of his rifle. Despite doing his best to keep his calm, it was through gritted teeth that he growled, "You can't possibly know that."
"Yeah, well, I do." Dean tucked his gun back into his waist, eyes darting, however momentarily, to the partially closed door where his brother and Andy were sequestered away. He hadn't checked on them in a while, and a little niggle of worry started up when Sam didn't come out to check on the noise. Dean rolled his shoulder, rubbing at his chest.
"You 'just know'."
Closing his eyes to keep from rolling them – or worse – Dean turned back to the front of the store and Mark, who was wringing that rifle in his hands with increased agitation. Dean narrowed his eyes and met every inch of distrust pouring off the man with a growing bucket load of his own. "Yeah. I just know."
"Yeah?" Mark countered, taking a challenging step forward. "Well I'm finding that damn suspicious. That you just know."
Between them but off to the side, Duane Tanner looked back and forth at the warring men, worry quickly replacing his confusion. "Uh, guys? What's going on?"
"You know what I find suspicious?" Dean took that same step forward, bringing the two men within punching distance of each other. His fingers twitched for the gun he'd just put away, but if his growing hunch was right, if that ache spreading across his chest was dead on as it always had been, then that gun wouldn't do him any good. "That you of all people didn't listen to Andy's message. You didn't go home, Sarge. Nah, you just happened to be out on the town, in the exact right place at the right time to run into me. Again."
The Sarge's answering frown, angry as it was, also became confused. Dean didn't buy it, though. "What message? And what do you mean, 'again?' I've only run into you once on this blasted night, and once was plenty enough."
This time Dean did roll his eyes. Ignoring the second part of Mark's words, he explained curtly, "The message we broadcasted all over town, asshole, telling everyone to get inside and stay there. Funny that you didn't listen."
The Master Sarge's eyes grew dark at the accusation he didn't fully understand but heard regardless. He drew to his full height, which was a couple inches short of the Winchester man, but he didn't let that stop him from being an intimidating sight himself. "I didn't hear any damn message, and even if I had, I wouldn'ta listened to it!"
"Guys…" Duane glanced between them, clearly growing nervous of the fight just seconds from breaking out.
"Yeah, I'm starting to get that." Dean smirked, the corner of his mouth ticking up dangerously. Mark suddenly got a whole new impression of the man, and it wasn't a pretty one. Distantly, they both heard the door to the patient's room opening and Sam coming out, asking what was going on. But Dean was focused on other things, like the burning in his chest and the son of a bitch right in front of him. "In fact, I'm starting to get the feeling Azazel had a spy on the inside the entire time. We just didn't know it."
Mark's frown only doubled, bafflement almost winning over the anger. Beside them, the Tanner kid stiffened and across the room, Sam started towards them. Dean took that last step into the Sarge's personal space and opened his mouth.
"Christo."
-o-o-o-
Dean was expecting a hiss and black eyes. Which was exactly what he got, just not from the direction he was anticipating. The sharp, serpentine intake of air to his right was surprising enough to render the hunter utterly useless for a span of about six seconds. He blinked, turning to the kid standing beside them, pack still hanging off one shoulder, leg bleeding, and eyes pure black.
"Son of a-"
Dean's stunned curse was interrupted as Duane Tanner backhanded him, both physically and with a wave of supernatural power, sending him flying into a row of chairs. The hit was hardly the worst he'd taken, but the tangle of seats around him slowed the hunter from getting immediately back to his feet. As he fought metal limbs and hard plastic, tossing the chair atop him aside, he heard the Sarge's gun discharge three times. Even heard the sick, wet thud of bullets sinking into flesh, but Dean knew they'd do no good against the Tanner kid.
God damnit, had he been a demon the whole (other) time?
Dean sat upright in time to see Duane grab the barrel of Mark's rifle and bend it like a rubber hose. The Sarge's eyes were wide; he knew death when he looked it in the face. Duane snapped his neck just as easily.
The older Winchester didn't have time to mourn the man as Mark's body crumpled to the floor or acknowledge any of the guilt he'd sure be feeling later for getting him killed this time. All because he'd targeted the wrong damn change in the timeline.
"Dean, Dean, Dean." Tanner turned to him, aggressive grin spreading across his face, and Dean drew his gun. "There you go again, knowing things you're not supposed to."
They'd come into this cursed little town with holy water, of course (prepared for anything), but his canister had been in that god damn duffle bag back at the station. Knowing it was useless, Dean emptied the clip into the approaching demon anyway. Every bullet sinking into the bastard might do absolutely nothing to slow him down, but it sure as hell felt better than doing nothing.
Soon as they made it out. They were getting themselves a god damn demon knife.
Several feet away, Duane suddenly faltered in his approach. Dean's gun clicked empty, and he reached into his front pocket to reload. The Tanner kid's focus was elsewhere, however, as his limbs twitched of their own accord and a muscle in his neck spasmed. He hissed suddenly, and with it the first trickle of black smoke leaked free of his mouth.
Black eyes turned sharply to the right, to Sam, still standing across the room from them. His lips moved in a near silent exorcism, but the Latin whispers were just enough to reach the demon. Duane hissed and more smoke leaked out, more spasms followed.
Dean slammed his backup magazine into the chamber and emptied it a second time as the demon started across the room.
"Sam, run!"
But his brother did no such thing. The younger Winchester stood his ground, mouth moving furiously, no longer keeping the exorcism quiet. The Tanner kid twitched like a damn epileptic, but it didn't stop his progress across the room. Dean knew the demon was only playing with its food.
"Damnit," the older hunter hissed, shoving the weapon back into his waistline and scrambling to his feet. He charged the demon as soon as he was upright; it was a kamikaze move – a fool's move – but he had no other choice.
"Ah-ah-ah." Tanner took his tackle head on but spun and, with a little demon-love-tap, sent Dean flying into the ground and sliding several feet away.
"Dean!" Sam broke off the exorcism as his brother hit the linoleum floor hard. The young hunter had memorized the Latin words easily enough, but rattling it off unfazed, sentence after sentence, all while facing down a creature of Hell currently beating the crap out of his brother, was something that clearly required more practice.
"Now, don't you go anywhere, Sam," the demon said as he stalked the six or so feet over to the fallen Winchester. Dean rolled onto his back and kicked out with his legs. Duane Tanner's shin bone snapped in half, but the demon hardly cared. He didn't notice or care about the limp in his gait as he bent down, picking the older Winchester up by the front of his jacket and hauling him into the air. Dean grunted, one hand wrapped around the kid's insanely strong grip, the other trying fruitlessly to punch that smug smirk right off his face.
Still holding his older brother a good inch off the ground, Duane turned back to Sam and aimed his pointer finger, thumb up, at Sam and smiled. "We've got a little something we need you to try out for us. It won't hurt. Much."
Sam stiffened, the words ringing with distant familiarity. His brother had called all of this a test. The demon raised the same two fingers to his lips and whistled loudly. The immediate shattering of glass answered as the front windows caved in. An echo of the same happening in the hallway broke the tension-filled room.
"Damnit, Sam, run!" Dean growled, and this time Sam actually listened. Several Croats came flooding into the room, climbing through the broken windows, bringing down the blinds in a clatter as their bodies hit the floor, some slamming into the clinic door, breaking the glass and scrambling for the lock with torn up, bleeding arms. The demon and Dean were closest to both sources, but the infected flowed around them like a river around a rock and Sam, realizing they weren't after his brother, finally bolted.
He made it to the room Andy was still tied up in, barreling through the door and slamming it shut behind him.
"What's going on?" Andy, who'd been in a fitful sleep until gunfire woke him in a panic, was pulling at his bonds, tilting the chair dangerously back and forth in an attempt to break free. "Sam, what's happening!"
The younger Winchester didn't answer, darting across the room for the doctor's stool tucked beneath the counter. He shoved it up and under the door handle only seconds before the entire surface rattled with the impact of something big and heavy.
Andy went deathly quiet, staring at the door with wide, horrified eyes. "Sam…? Where's Dean?"
Another thud shook the door, then another and another, and the sound of Croats trying to break it down was hard to misinterpret. Andy was shaking, struggling to swallow through the giant lump in his throat that was the realization of only one Winchester being on the right side of the door. Sam turned to him, fingers trembling with adrenaline as he pulled out the IV line and started on the knots tying the medical tubing tight to the kid's arms.
"What are you doing?" Andy whispered, but even his voice shook. "It hasn't been four hours!"
The younger Winchester barely spared him the patronizing big brother look as he got the first tube off, freeing Andy's good arm. "I'll take my chances."
He immediately moved to the other arm. With the next thud to the door, the stool slid an inch forward with a terrible metallic screech. Andy stared at the trembling, warping door with horror. It wasn't going to hold forever.
Sam got the last of the knots out and ripped the tubing off of him. He hauled Andy to his feet.
"How do we get out?" the kid whispered, leaning a good portion of his weight against the taller hunter. Sam was a damn rock beside him. "Not that I'm complaining about dying standing up instead of tied to a chair, but it's still dying, and I'd rather not do that."
The Winchester nodded his head to the small window, the only other exit from the room. Andy stared at the thing for a second, realizing how much it was going to hurt climbing through that thing with his injuries, and just groaned.
-o-o-o-
Dean kicked out uselessly, feeling humiliatingly like a toddler in the much smaller kid's grip. Demon strength was a bitch. The hunter tried to break the black-eyed bastard's hold, but to no avail. All of the Croats but one had disappeared into the back of the clinic, leaving it eerily quiet and still. Dean could only hope the lack of noise meant Sam and Andy had made it out.
"Alone at last," the Tanner kid said, eyes practically twinkling as he kept the hunter aloft like every super-powered bad guy ever. Dean was not impressed. The demon completely ignored the solitary Croat he had ordered to stay. The poor soul had once been an older man, probably a stand up fellow in the community because, sure, why not. Now he stood by the clinic doors, swaying back and forth ever so slightly, but otherwise completely blank to the world.
Dean was way more wary of the Croat than the demon currently weight-lifting his body like he was going for the official title of World's Longest Upright Planking. Cuz that was totally a thing.
"Fuck you," he spat, kicking out again. Even when he managed to strike the demon, the Tanner kid barely even reacted to the glancing blows.
"Oh, you'll wish that's all we did to you, Winchester."
Dean stilled in the demon's grip, gritting his teeth as he stared down at the creature. Green eyes glanced over to the Croat, a flicker of fear running up his spine, but the zombie didn't move. Dean bared his teeth, trying to fight back the curiosity, tried not to give the bastard exactly what he wanted, but ultimately failed. "…We?"
Duane Tanner just grinned.
-o-o-o-
Sam lowered Andy into the claustrophobically narrow space slowly, careful not to tear open those wounds. They hadn't made it far, only a dozen feet from the medical clinic, but the small parking lot that lined the back of the building had several alcoves and doorways, including this one, which was primarily taken up by a very large dumpster. The smell was horrendous, of course, but it was a good hiding spot and the best they'd get in the handful of seconds between that door breaking down and the Croats climbing out the window after them.
The beanstalk of a Winchester crouched down to the ground the best he could between the filthy metal box and the dirt and skidmark-streaked wall at the back of the alcove. From where he was positioned, he could peer around the corner of the dumpster and see about a thirty foot stretch of parking lot. He ducked back with a silent hiss as a shadowy figure ran past only feet away. A second followed, pausing for a moment right in front of the dumpster and Sam latched onto Andy's hand as the kid positively shook. But he stayed quiet, and the Croat eventually turned on his heel and headed off across the lot at a dead run. The two hunters let out silent breaths.
Sam could see others dart into his constricted field of vision now and then, spreading out and away from the medical clinic. The five or so infected that had chased after them had, once again, split up in the hunt. Luckily, hide and seek didn't seem too high up on their resume of zombie skills.
"Was that all of them?" Andy finally whispered, voice so quiet Sam barely heard it from right next to him. He squeezed the kid's hand before letting go and daring to climb a little further out of the alcove.
Sam could still see a shadowy figure in the distance, searching the tree-line a hundred feet away. But given the lack of light in the lot behind this block of buildings, Sam doubted the Croat would spot them, even if they climbed out into the open right now.
"Yeah, I think that's all of them." The hunter straightened from his half-crouched position, cricket legs already cramping from the tight fit. Andy made an aborted motion to stop him, but ended up just clenching his teeth and breathing through the very obvious panic. Sam hesitated because of it, observing the poor kid for a long moment, before crouching back down. He laid a comforting hand on Andy's shoulder. "I've gotta go back for Dean."
Wide brown eyes snapped to his and Andy's jaw flapped open uselessly for a second. "He's alive?"
Sam winced, realizing that in his frantic rush to get them both out, he hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the details. "Yeah. A demon got him but…but he's alive. The…Reavers were just after me."
For some reason, Sam still couldn't bring himself to call the demon-virus infected humans by the term Dean slung around so damn causally. It was something about the bitter darkness in his brother's face anytime he used that word that continuously hung Sam up anytime he thought about using it.
"Aw, man," Andy shuddered. "You mean I coulda stayed tied up in my nice cozy medical-tube prison and been fine?"
Now he got the proper big brotherly glare.
"Sure, if getting capture by a demon is your idea of 'fine.'" The younger Winchester stood once more, this time fully rising to look out over the dumpster. The shadowy figure by the tree-line was gone and the rest of the small lot was encouragingly empty. "I've gotta go back."
"'Kay. What's the plan?" Andy hissed as he started struggling to his feet. Sam immediately turned, pushing him back to the ground as gently as he could.
"The plan is you're staying here."
"What?" The kid blinked up at him and, despite the fluids refill, Sam could tell he was still far from good. And surely in a lot of pain. "Nah, man, I'm coming with you."
"Andy, you can barely stand on your own."
And he was bleeding again, but considering they were zilch in the way of medical supplies right now, Sam really didn't see the benefit of pointing that out.
The resident Jedi let out a loud, 'pfft' before realizing it reverberated in the alcove and echoed out into the parking lot. Sam wasn't worried – there wasn't anyone near enough to hear – but the kid quickly dropped his voice back down. "Who needs to stand? You can totally pull off a rescue with a butt-scoot."
Sam dropped back down, a pitiable but affectionate (if not properly exasperated) expression on his face. He squeezed Andy's good shoulder again and the kid new he wasn't going right then and there. No one in the history of ever could win a fight against those stupidly sympathetic, understanding, puppy dog eyes.
"Youcan totally pull off a rescue. By sitting here, out of sight."
"And if you don't come back?" Andy was quieter now but staring up at him intently.
Sam was quiet too, knowing the possibility of that was very, very real. He gave the kid the most confident look he could muster and then tried to feel it himself. "I'm coming back."
With that, the younger Winchester climbed to his feet and edged his way around the dumpster and out of the alcove. He took several tentative steps into the open, staring at the darkness hedging in from all three sides. Confident he was alone, Sam turned back to the dumpster, double checking Andy was completely out of sight.
"Well, well, well."
Sam's head snapped up and he stumbled several feet back from the wall of the building, where three people stood on the edge of the roof at least twenty feet above him.
Not good.
"Sam Winchester."
The woman who had spoken dropped from the building, hitting the ground with a sharp impact, but standing from the twenty-something drop like she hadn't felt a thing. When she rose to her full height, her eyes slid black.
So. Not. Good.
"We've been looking for you."
Her two buddies joined her, landing on either side of the woman. The larger of the two looked over his shoulder at the dumpster, and Sam's stomach sunk somewhere down near his toes. They knew. He clenched his fists by his side as the hulking mass of a demon shoved the dumpster to the side and started pushing his way into the small space. There was no way Sam could get an exorcism out before one of the three demons took him down.
The woman pulled a walkie-talkie from her hip. It crackled with static as she turned it on, and Sam realized it had to be shortwave. Dean had said the radios would be out as well; another reason not to bring Baby with them. She raised it to her perfectly painted red lips.
"Kill the jammer and call the boss. Tell him we got 'em."
Andy cried out as the demon hauled him up and out of the alcove. Sam yelled at them to stop; there was no reason to hurt him further or risk tearing the stitches keeping an already limited supply of blood inside the boy where it belonged. But neither of the psychics' words, super-powered or not, had any effect on the demons. The kid stumbled into the open space behind the demon, dragged out by the hair. Both of Andy's arms were up, clawing at the meaty hands and Sam eyed his shoulder worryingly. It didn't look like it was bleeding much more than before, at least for now.
Andy met his gaze from feet away. Sam didn't have any answers to the questions or the fear there. He put up a fight as the third demon grabbed onto his arm, eventually having to get a much better grip after Sam took out a kneecap and busted the guy's nose. But there wasn't much more than a good fight to be had against three demons who could break their bones like toothpicks. They were well and truly screwed this time.
A minute later, the familiar crackle of Azazel's voice replying through the radio sealed that deal.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A/Ns: *head thud* twenty one *head thud* god damn *head thud* pages.
…But it was worth it, no? Dear Chuck, tell me it was worth it. Lie to me if you have to.
Next Update: may be late, as I'm going camping next weekend. Great for writing time, reeeeally crappy for uploading-to-that-thing-called-the-internet-which-doesn't-really-exist-in-the-middle-of-the-woods-(yet). But it'll be up by Monday at the latest.
Reviews: Firstly, you guys have been AWESOME to me the last couple chapters and there really aren't words to express just how much I appreciate it or how much it means to the success of this story. If you still have it in you, please keep it coming for this chapter. It's not that this little re-write took a lot out of me, but it definitely delayed that whole writing-new-material-instead-of-adding-a-super-long-chapter-to-an-already-finished-arc-that-just-didn't-have-the-Sarge-in-it-but-was-still-perfectly-fine-damnit. At least until the Muse reminded me that no, no it really wasn't.
Secondly, we gained a ton of new readers which is always awesome to see, so WELCOME NEW PEEPS!
Review Replies: To the Guest reviewer on ff who complimented my management of Andy not becoming a magical solve-all solution to every problem: [insert nervous laughter here that quickly turns into sobbing] You have no idea, can I please just kill him off, he makes it so I have to work SO MUCH HARDER AT THIS CREATIVE WRITING STORY TELLING THING.
Fun Fact #420: I will not kill Andy Gallagher off just because he makes me work so much harder at this creative writing story telling thing.
Fun Fact #421: I will (probably) kill him off because Time is a mother effer and I'm a no good dirty rotten author ^.^
Anyhoo! Hope you guys enjoyed this one, see you next time!