I've been looking after two adorable cats these past two weeks, and one of them loved walking all over my laptop keyboard. While I tried to ctrl+z everything she changed, a weird addition or two might have slipped in that I missed. Please point them out to me so I can remove them!
Also, please read my notes at the end before you google [spoiler]!
New tags: Blood and Violence, Blood, Blood and Torture, Torture, Dead Parent (oc/side character)
The brothers regarded the abandoned warehouse in front of them. Sam had tracked the vampires all over town and the trail had led them here. Their names were Tristan Carlyle and Emmery Lowe and despite their advanced, unnatural ages, they were not the sharpest tools in the shed. For starters, they had paid with credit cards under their actual names and had used their real names while traveling all over the US. How no one at the DMV had ever noticed they should have been six feet under over fifty years ago, Dean had no clue. Not that it mattered anymore, because it was a problem they were going to fix very soon.
It was only barely past midnight, so they had plenty of time to kill some vampires, save the kids, and still get a good night's sleep after.
Sam stood further away from Dean than normal.
"Why are you all the way over there?" Dean asked, though he could take a gander as to why.
"You stink of sex." Sam sounded appalled like the prude he was. Only he would be so disgusted by something as natural as sex. How old was he, twelve?
Dean shrugged. "You're just jealous."
Sam snorted in disbelief. "Sure."
Dean inched closer to clap Sam on the shoulder. "One day, Sammy, one day."
Sam, not wanting to smell like Dean's sexual activities, moved away with no further comment, shrugging off Dean's hand in the process.
They remained silent for a minute, watching for movement. Sam was certain they were around somewhere, the question just was where exactly. There was only one way to find out.
"Do you think they're in there?" Dean asked, referring to the kids. The vamps, they knew. That nice buzz he had going on in the bar had long worn off by now and he missed it like a ripped-out fingernail.
Sam huffed, his breath forming a small cloud in front of his face. "If they're not, I don't know where else to look."
"Neither do I." Dean took a deep, cool breath. "Let's go." They drew their machetes, ready to decapitate some monsters. They both also carried two syringes filled with dead man's blood. A precaution, in case things turned nasty on their end.
They found a side entrance that wasn't locked, which they knew didn't bode well for them.
Dean glanced at Sam with a silent command to cover his back and stepped inside, not waiting for his brother to comply. Dean knew he would, anyway.
It was dark inside the warehouse. They were lucky some light came in from the outside, otherwise they would have had to move around in pitch black.
Dean had expected… something, but not the huge empty processing area they were in. There was no rusting equipment, no rotting anything — nothing but a grimy floor and multiple rows of support beams. In the back, a metal staircase led to what was probably an office overlooking the processing area.
Even though it was quiet and nothing moved, Dean froze, waiting for a vamp to pop up. Those assholes could be fast, especially with his currently limited sight.
Sam entered behind him, his feet near silent. They stood in a particularly dark area, where they would have been invisible to virtually anyone but the monsters they were looking for. It meant they had to move fast.
Dean scanned the room, then repeated the action until he was certain they were alone. He looked at Sam, who nodded. He hadn't seen anything suspicious either.
Together, they crept toward the stairs that led to the office. There, Sam noticed a door behind the steps, hidden in the shadows.
He pointed at it, signaling to Dean he would check it out while Dean checked the office.
Dean nodded and they split up.
The stairs looked sturdy enough, but Dean was still careful not to make a sound as he slowly made his way up. When he reached the top of the stairs he faced a door that was slightly ajar. The room behind it was too dark to see anything but a black hole.
With his machete in one hand, Dean pushed the door open with his other hand's fingertips. It creaked softly. As he stepped inside, he was completely engulfed in shadows.
Dean realized him waltzing in here like that might make his top 100 stupidest moves ever. He couldn't see anything and a pin dropping would sound like the cracking of thunder right now. He wished he had brought a flashlight, even though that would majorly give away his position if anyone were near him.
He shuffled forward, careful not to bump into anything that might be there.
Somewhere in the back of the building, something crashed. It startled Dean, who was focusing on any possible sound the vampires could make. He didn't have time to worry about the crash, though, because he heard scuffling on his left.
Dean turned, his blade ready to strike, but wasn't fast enough to avoid being hit first. An invisible fist hit him right in the solar plexus.
He stumbled back several steps and wheezed, trying to catch his breath. But his opponent didn't relent and Dean received a punch to the face. A sharp ring caught his cheek and he felt his skin split.
Dean saw stars in the dark but blinked them away.
The next time they came at him, Dean was more prepared. His instinct, which may or may not be the Mark in disguise, told him he was going to get attacked from behind. He sidestepped his attacker. He wasn't a second too late as he felt a brush of air touch his arm. Had he reacted half a second later, he would have been shish kebabbed.
The softest rustle of clothes caught his attention. Dean twirled the machete in his hand, ready to strike, when someone hit him on the back of his head.
Dean felt a surge of anger at the Mark for not warning him of a second attacker as he fell to the ground. In the darkness, blissful oblivion beckoned and he fell in its embrace.
⁂
Dean knew he was tied to a chair before he was fully conscious. These vampires had used duct tape rather than the usual rope, so at least Dean was now positive he preferred the ropey kind of bondage. He took the W.
The two vampires were close, standing somewhere to his right, Dean could hear them whispering to each other, though he couldn't make out what they were saying.
He kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, hoping to trick the vamps into thinking he was still passed out until he figured out a way to escape. Except, until he opened his eyes and looked around, he had no idea if they had taken Sam too or if he was still out there. If he was lucky, they would leave him alone for a few minutes, during which he could attempt his escape.
His patience ran out about a minute later. The vamps' discussion was heating up, so he deemed it safe to crack open his left eye and get a look at the room they were in.
Dean didn't recognize the room but from the looks of things, they were still in the office. The few dilapidated desks and chairs confirmed it. This time, the lights were on and Dean saw that the large window, which was also the only window, overlooking the processing area was covered. That explained why it had been so dark in here before. But he didn't see Sam anywhere. Dean breathed a tiny sigh of relief. That meant the crash earlier possibly hadn't been him. Sam may become useful yet.
A silence fell. Dean figured now was a good time to 'wake up' before he would get tortured into consciousness. He groaned, perhaps a bit dramatically, as he lifted his head and squinted his eyes at the 'sudden' bright light. In a different life, Dean would have been paid his weight in gold for this god-tier level of acting.
Dean found the two vampires staring back at him. He had to give it to Alice, she had been spot-on in her description of the two. Tristan looked like he had been around since before the shower was invented and Emmery, who looked more like a teen girl way out of her comfort zone, was dressed in hotpants and a bikini top covered by a T-shirt like she was headed to the beach after they killed Dean. To each their own, Dean supposed.
Now that he had their attention, he was going to make them regret not duct-taping his mouth shut.
"What's a guy got to do around here to get room service, hm?" Dean held the guy's stare. His face signaled he was pissed and internally, he felt that the Mark was outraged at the vampires' audacity of tying him up. Had it been a person, he definitely would have received an earful at the first possible occasion.
For a moment, the vampires were too stunned to speak. Then Tristan approached him, wary of him like he was a tiger that could attack any second. Dean took it as a compliment.
"Are you a hunter?" Tristan asked. "Are you here to kill us?"
"Is that a rhetorical question? I bet that's a rhetorical question."
Emmery snarled. "Answer him, human."
Dean sighed, as though all of this was a great inconvenience to him. It wasn't all an act. "No, I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to take a peek inside."
"Bullcrap." Tristan approached him with his fangs already out. "You knew we were here. Where's your partner?"
Dean feigned ignorance. "What partner?"
Tristan was unconvinced. "Don't play coy."
"I'm surprised you know what that word means." Dean didn't try to keep the taunting tone from his voice.
Whatever Tristan said in response was drowned out by another crash elsewhere in the building. He stopped talking mid-sentence and turned towards the door, possibly expecting Sam to barge in any second. When nothing had happened after the 'any second' period ended, he faced Emmery with a thunderous look. He pointed a glaring finger at her. "Watch him." The implication if she didn't was clear.
Dean watched it all happen in silence. They definitely didn't have the healthiest of relationships going on for that reason alone, he was glad they would be dead soon.
Emmery nodded mutely. Tristan stalked off and with that, Dean and Emmery were alone.
Dean winked at her. Her face contorted in response. Oh well, Dean had already gotten lucky tonight, no hard feelings. The fact that she was a vampire and looked young enough to be his daughter but was actually old enough to be his great-grandmother had nothing to do with those feelings, nope. The mental image made him shudder nonetheless.
Dean felt invited to test her limits now that Tristan had gone, so after a minute of awkward silence, he spoke up. "You have nothing to say to me?" He knew his cocky confidence had infuriated countless monsters over the years. It had a damn near 100% success rate.
Emmery glared at him, which only made Dean's smile grow.
"What, a hunter got your tongue?"
Emmery hissed. "You know nothing about us, filthy trash." She attempted to look intimidating, except she looked more like an angry ten-year-old. Even with his line of work, the threatening kids they encountered were few and far between.
That thought made Dean genuinely laugh. It was ironic, considering they didn't even know who Tristan was hunting but they knew literally every single thing about the vampiric duo. "You sure about that?" He listed some of the fun facts Sam had dug up earlier tonight. With every piece of trivia, Emmery became more enraged until she finally couldn't handle it anymore.
"Shut up. Shut up!" Her shriek was so loud it hurt Dean's ears. He winced, unable to cover them. That only infuriated her more. "I don't care what Tristan says about keeping you as bait, you're a dead man." Instead of stabbing him right then and there, Emmery first taped his mouth shut with the same roll he assumed they had used to gift-wrap the rest of him. He only needed a pretty bow to complete the look. Maybe Emmery owned one he could borrow.
Dean made some more noises behind the tape just to provoke her even more. It worked.
This time, Emmery did grab a long sharp blade. Dean recognized it as his machete. He definitely saw the irony in being killed by his own blade. If he could properly die. The odds weren't exactly against him.
He wasn't worried though, not yet anyway, except Sam was cutting it a little too close on rescuing his damsel ass in distress.
"You're dead, so freaking dead." Emmery got so close a waft of her cheap perfume entered Dean's nose. It smelled disgusting. "I'm gonna slit your throat and I'll drink your blood and it's gonna taste so sweet." She licked her lips in anticipation. "And the best part? I'll do it slow so you'll feel every bit of it."
Dean randomly wondered what would happen if someone or something consumed him completely before he could turn back into a Knight of Hell. Would he die for real or would he be reborn in a half-digested body? He wasn't very keen on finding out.
She stood in front of Dean, all of her intimidating 4'10", and put the tip of the machete to his throat when the door opened. Emmery didn't see it but Dean had a clear view of Tristan standing in the doorway. Unfortunately for him, not all of him was attached anymore. Dean smiled behind the duct tape. This was going to be fun.
Emmery noticed he was looking at something behind her and whirled around. "Tristan—" she started, but it quickly turned into a blood-curdling scream at the sight of her headless boyfriend.
Dean, completely forgotten, watched as she rushed over to her double-dead boyfriend. It turned out to be a dumb move. When she reached Tristan, an invisible Sam surprised her by pushing the body towards her. Emmery caught it in reflex, struggling to hold it upright when the sudden weight threatened to make her fall.
Sam used this opportunity to push her further into the room. He turned her around, dropping Tristan's body to the side in the process, and pinned her against a wall. Angry and frustrated, Emmery tried to bite Sam's head off, but even with her vampiric strength, she was no match for Sam's mountainous body.
He held her in place with one arm while he grabbed the syringe filled with dead man's blood with his free hand. Without any fanfare, he jabbed it into her neck and emptied the whole thing. After a moment, Emmery slumped forward, she was out like a light. The whole fight was over in seconds.
Dean watched it all happen and could only feel pride in his bones. And maybe a smidge of embarrassment for getting caught by those two doofuses in the first place.
Sam pulled his arm away and Emmery unceremoniously dropped to the floor. He looked around and found Dean, tied up like a birthday present.
"Dean." Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "You okay?"
Dean talked behind the duct tape. Yes, he was perfectly fine, there was nothing to worry about, what took him so long, what was that sound he had heard before he got jumped? Of course, Sam understood none of it, but it was fun seeing him trying to make sense of it anyway.
Dean made some more noises, which finally spurred Sam on to approach him and rip the tape off. Dean groaned and threw out a few choice words for good measure. It hurt like a bitch.
"You son of a bitch. Couldn't you have done that any gentler?" He flexed his jaw to ease the burning sensation.
"That's what you get for getting caught," Sam said with a grin.
"Oh, look at me, I'm Sammy and I saved my brother from the big, bad vampires," Dean mimicked Sam badly, including a few nonsensical sounds. Then he said in his normal voice, "Now cut me loose, we have a vamp to question."
⁂
Emmery produced a roar that didn't fit her petite frame.
Dean wondered why. He had only taken a hammer to one of her knees. Surely this little bit of torture didn't hurt that much? He and Sam had survived worse without as much as a peep. And from his experience torturing people during his time in Hell under Alastair's tutelage, it was usually the precision stuff that hurt the most, not the big hits.
Still, he was just only getting started and it simply wouldn't do to reveal his best moves right from the beginning. Technically, she would heal, if she lived that long, though Dean highly doubted she would. She might be dumb as bricks, but they would be dumber leaving a vampire, even one like her, alive.
Sam watched it all happen, a small crease between his eyebrows and his mouth slightly turned downward. If he disapproved, he didn't say it. He didn't interfere and it was all the motivation Dean needed to hit her again. He hit the middle of her thigh, on the side, so hard the bone audibly snapped.
Emmery screamed so hard her voice broke.
"We know you kidnapped those kids. Where are they?" Dean stepped back, giving her some much-needed room to breathe. He could be nice if he wanted to. Occasionally.
The vampire mumbled something through her tears.
If she was willing to spill the beans, her moment of taking a breath was over. "What was that?" he taunted.
Emmery spat at him. Or rather, tried to and failed miserably.
Dean watched the pink-tinted glob slide to her chin and drop down on her shirt. His upper lip pulled up. It was one thing that if he never saw it again, it would still be too soon.
"I said," Emmery enunciated every word with deliberate care and with tears streaming down her face, "you killed my Tristan. And you're just going to kill me, too. Why would I bother telling you anything?"
Dean shrugged. "An apology isn't going to bring him back."
If looks could kill… "Screw you," she hissed.
Dean gave her a once-over with clear disdain. "I don't do vamp skanks."
Sam snorted in the background.
Emmery grinned in response. Blood stained her human set of teeth and made her look absolutely feral. She wasn't talking though and it pissed Dean off.
"Now you're deciding to quit being a Chatty Cathy, hm? Don't stop talking on my account." His entire demeanor was, for all intents and purposes, cold and malicious. He had been nice before, mostly at least, and it was time to be less nice.
Now he had donned a mask of the uncaring, indifferent torturer and while a tiny, foreign part of him enjoyed it, his desire to get this over with was getting stronger and stronger. It was easy to blame the Mark for this delight, but in reality, that was also a part of him. The Mark only enhanced the negative feelings that were already there, similar to what Sam once experienced a lifetime ago.
Emmery remained silent, yet her eyes still burned with a defiance Dean almost admired. Stupid vampire, stupid case, stupid missing kids, stupid Mark of Cain. He needed everyone to get all the way off his back. This whole thing was getting on his nerves, so Dean figured it was time to change things up. Maybe that would help. He held out his hand to Sam, who wordlessly handed him a knife. When Dean checked which one he was holding, he smiled. Sam had chosen well, it was one of his favorites.
He made a cut along the length of Emmery's taped-up arm. He made sure it was shallow so she wouldn't bleed out before he was done with her. Emmery, as unresistant to cuts as to blows, screamed. When he did the same to her other arm, the pitch rose.
"Where are you keeping those kids?" Dean asked.
"We never had any kids," Emmery sobbed, misinterpreting Dean's question wildly. "We didn't know if we could."
Though her answer made Dean wonder if she really had no idea what he was talking about, he remembered her saying she wasn't going to spill the beans. Which statement was true?
"We asked for the truth." Dean made another shallow cut, this time on her shoulder just above the clavicle. The Mark purred at the sight of the blood that pooled there, but Dean's skin crawled. He pushed the strange presence to the furthest reaches of his mind. Torture, even the lite version, required precision and a calm mind, not hacking and slashing.
"I told you," Emmery half-sobbed half-cried, "I don't know anything about any children."
Dean got up right in her face. "Don't lie to us." His voice was steady and he felt in control. Even his heartbeat was surprisingly steady given the circumstances. He amazed himself sometimes.
"Dean." Sam spoke softly, placating. Dean took two steps pretty much on instinct. Hearing his name worked better than if Sam had yelled. "I think she's telling the truth."
Dean agreed with him. No one of her… mediocre caliber would endure for so long if they knew something. If she hadn't been a vampire, he would have felt bad for her. Except she was, so he didn't.
Emmery, eyes big as saucers, switched between the two hunters to mutely plead her case, unsure of what was going to happen next. It was a true testament to her intelligence that she couldn't predict her near future.
Sam stepped up beside Dean. Dean tried to see his work through Sam's eyes. Emmery was beaten up good. While her head was mostly untouched, the rest of her body was covered in cuts and bruises. Dean had made sure she wouldn't bleed out or have her lose consciousness due to blood loss. Neither would work with their tight-scheduled interrogation. Had they given her blood, because of pity or because he had gone too far, she would have started healing already. Instead, she was shaking uncontrollably and it wasn't from the chill that hung in the building.
"Do you want to—?" Dean asked Sam.
"Nah, she's all yours." Sam clapped him on the shoulder. When Dean caught sight of the hand, he noticed it was spattered with blood. Tristan's, he assumed.
Apprehension crept in. Realization wouldn't be far off. "Do what?" Emmery scooted back in her seat, trying to get away from them. Unsuccessfully, of course.
Dean casually strolled towards where Emmery had dropped his machete after she had been knocked out. He picked it up and turned on his heels slowly while pretending to check for possible damage.
Meanwhile, Emmery's apprehension had turned into full-blown terror and the scooting had turned into wriggling. She had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. "What are you going to do to me?" she asked in a small voice.
Dean reclaimed his place next to Sam. He lifted the machete. Emmery flinched but he just leaned the blunt side against his shoulder. The implication was clear.
Realization set in. "No. No, no, no." Emmery shook her head wildly. "Please don't kill me," she pleaded, "I can be good, I promise."
Dean didn't trust her for a second, nor did he need to, because she was going to die sometime in the next minute.
"And Tristan? You don't want revenge?" Sam played along.
Emmery shook her head so wildly that the wound on her collarbone opened and started bleeding again. Something inside Dean pinged like a submarine's sonar at the sight of it. He ignored it the best he could.
He let the machete fall from his shoulder and angled it in preparation for his next move. "This is getting boring." Emmery tried to continue her protests, but Dean's patience had run out to the last drop. With one swift movement, he separated the vampire's head from her body. The liberated head thumped on the floor and rolled a few feet from the rest of her. Emmery's still wide eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
"There, problem solved," Dean said with a slight grimace.
Sam said nothing in return. He didn't need to. Sure, they had relieved the world of two more vampires, but they hadn't come any closer to solving their case.
⁂
They left the building through the same door they entered. In the office, the two corpses were smoldering, burning away any evidence they and the brothers were ever there. Morning was way too close to Dean's liking, and the night had only gotten colder.
Dean watched his clouded breath for a second. Sam came up next to him as the door fell shut.
"You good?" he asked, eyeing Dean from the side.
Dean considered the question. "Yeah," he decided. "Yeah, you know, for the first time I've been back, I didn't feel like the Mark was pushing me." He surprised himself with the sincerity in his voice. He really had been fine. The Mark, even though its presence never really went away, had been manageable. Dean had never been in danger of losing control. It was a first and it was both freeing and dangerous. He knew from experience that the Mark had a mind of its own and he was afraid that once his control would slip the tiniest bit, the Mark would break free and take over. He kept that fact to himself, though Sam probably already knew.
Sam watched his face, trying to detect any lies. He couldn't find any. "First time?"
Dean nodded. "All I know is back there, with that vamp, I felt like me again." It was the truest thing he could say without having to delve into his feelings too deeply. This moment wasn't the time to do that. Nor was it ever, if he were honest. Not to mention the fact he had most felt like himself while he was actively torturing someone. That was a thought he didn't dare touch with a ten-foot pole.
"All right, so that's good, right?" Sam sounded and looked hopeful.
Dean hated that he would disappoint him when he inevitably went darkside again. "Yeah," was all he said.
"Good," Sam nodded, "let's go with that."
Conversation over, Sam left the warehouse for what it was and walked towards where they had parked the car earlier.
Dean stayed behind for a moment, absentmindedly touching his coat. Through it, he could feel those infernal ridges. The Mark was quiet though, and Dean felt like he could take a few deep breaths before the next worst thing came their way. That event would probably coincide with whatever had kidnapped those children.
"Dean, you coming?"
Dean startled at the question. He looked up and saw Sam had turned back to him without him noticing. He breathed out a large cloud of steam as he sighed, but he caught up with Sam without further objection.
⁂
Sam took a quick shower when they arrived back at the Evergreen motel, because, according to him, "he felt gross after killing that vampire". Afterward, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow, his long tresses framing his face.
Dean only washed off the blood at the sink. Taking a shower was too much effort and he was exhausted. But sleep evaded Dean like the plague. He felt restless, even after a very long and tiring day, and the adrenaline was still very much coursing through his body.
What he had said to Sam was only a half-truth. He had felt more like himself than he had in a long time, but beheading a vampire did so little to scratch that itch that it only made it worse.
In the bed next to him, Sam started snoring softly. To drown out the sound, Dean grabbed his phone and plugged in his earphones. He cranked up the volume, probably loud enough for Sam to hear if he were awake. Dean didn't care.
As Dean lay there, awake, his mind started wandering. He thought of Sam worrying about him and how easy it was for his little brother to see through his lies. Only so few other people could do that.
He wasn't used to anyone, not even Sam, taking care of him. He found the whole ordeal jarring, made him want to crawl out of his own skin, and preferred Sam to go back to his regular self. He should point all that kindness anywhere but toward Dean. He was undeserving.
Talking to Sam wouldn't change anything. No, Sam would want to fix it, maybe even fix him. But there was nothing to fix, not anymore.
Dean's soul, his core self, was encapsulated tightly through years of hard and thankless work. Ever since Azazel killed their mom, Dean had paper macheed layer upon layer over his emotions, to make himself into a shield to protect his little brother from the rest of the world. He was the peacekeeper between their dad and Sam and still saw himself as Sam's main caregiver. That purpose had always been more important than hunting.
Dean had signed more of Sam's permission slips from school than John Winchester ever had. Dean wouldn't want it any other way. He would rather have these… turbulent and eventful last ten years with Sam than have no Sam in his life in any capacity.
The last time Dean had saved Sam from the brink of death, when Gadreel had possessed Sam to heal him, Dean had known it was selfish to save his brother. He didn't consider himself selfish — no sane self-centered person would go into the hunting business — but he had allowed himself one wish: for Sam to survive. To survive him, to survive the end of the world. And Dean? Dean didn't mind getting beaten, stabbed, shot, tortured, or broken as long as Sam lived. There was no world without Sam. He was willing to sacrifice everyone he had ever loved to bring his little brother back. Benny was proof of that. Should something irrevocable happen to Sam, Dean was going to burn the whole world to the ground. No one, not even God, would be safe from his wrath.
Despite Sam's anger over the possession and the immorality of it, Dean still felt justified. Even if he had never seen Sam ever again, he preferred it a million times over to Sam being permanently gone. His blood would have been on Dean's hands, like Kevin's was, no matter what anyone said. Dean knew that without Sam, excluding the Mark of Cain, he would be dead within weeks. His life meant nothing if Sam wasn't there. No, if Sam died he had failed his one and only duty. The only reward for that would be death.
Dean not only didn't want to live a long life, he was afraid of it. Dad had taught them that, willingly or not, it was better to go down swinging than to die a coward's death by running away. Dean had taken that advice to heart. He would not turn away from evil at any cost.
A long time ago, he had admitted to Sam that he was tired. It had been true then and still was now, but he was stuck on this path and couldn't stop. He wasn't allowed to leave, while everyone else was. Everyone had left. But Dean wouldn't. He knew that if he left, crap would hit the fan again and it would be his fault, because he wasn't there. It had happened before, when Sam had chucked himself into Hell and Dean had left to be with Lisa… That year was one of the happiest of his life and therefore one of the worst. His memories from that time were so filled with shame, he was never going to forgive himself for any of it. Not for getting out of the life and not for abandoning Sam, even when there was nothing he could have done.
Sam had already run off to college when Dean realized how lucky they were to still be in one piece. Despite their dad's hunts, and later on their own, the boys had never been taken from their dad by anyone, supernatural-related or not. For a second, Dean wondered if John would rescue them if they had been kidnapped, but then he realized just as quickly that if he did have to rescue them, he would smack their asses like there was no tomorrow. Despite the hurt that always came when thinking about John, Dean smiled at the thought of their dad coming to their rescue. Somewhere, his dad was still his hero.
Now, being in one piece was relative. Dean wasn't even sure anymore how to carbon date his body anymore. Or Sam's, for that matter. He made a mental note to ask Cas the next time they spoke. Cas would know.
Dean looked over to Sam, who was peacefully snoring the night away. In his sleep, he looked so much younger than he did while awake, unburdened by his worries. It reminded him of Sam at the bar earlier that night and how easy it had been for him to talk to those strangers. How friendly he had been with them. Dean knew he was experiencing jealousy over it, something he rarely felt. Between the two of them, Sam had always been the nice one and Dean was all right with that. Sam was the one always trying to save everyone, even when they were beyond saving. Somehow, his head had not been too messed up to make friends at Stanford, while Dean couldn't even remember the last time he had had a non-hunter friend. If he had had friends before Mary died, he didn't remember them or their names. His past friendships perished in that fire, along with his mom.
⁂
Sam's 6:12 alarm was interrupted by his ringtone. He slapped the nightstand twice before he aimed true and found his phone. Dean watched it all happen with tired amusement. In the end, his mind had raced too hard for sleep to catch up. Music had been his companion as he waited for time to pass.
A bleary-eyed Sam answered the phone as he sat up. "Special Agent Cornelius," he said, attempting to sound more awake than he looked. He listened for a moment before his eyes flicked to Dean, more awake now. "Of course. We'll be right there."
He hung up and faced Dean fully. He gave him the Cliff notes. "Another kid was kidnapped last night. Unlike the other kidnappings, this time they killed the mom. The dad received a thorough beating and is in the hospital. We're going to meet up with Sergeant Zimmermann there."
Despite the early hour, the hospital was already bustling. They showed their fake badges to the woman behind the reception desk and asked for directions. A few minutes and a marathon of walking later, they entered the right room.
The sergeant was standing next to the hospital bed. He looked as tired as Dean felt. Presumably, his night had been a lot shorter than expected, too.
Dean turned to the patient and did his best not to wince. He pitied the man. His face was black and blue, one eye swollen shut and he had an arm and a leg in a cast. Not to mention the fact he lost his wife a mere few hours ago in this brutal attack and had his kid abducted. Definitely one of the worst ways to start one's day. But, the man was conscious and that was all Dean cared about at the moment.
They flashed their badges again. "Mr. Johnsson? Special Agents James and Cornelius, FBI. We're very sorry for your loss," Sam started. "We'd like to ask you some questions about what happened to you and your family."
Mr. Johnsson was already close to tears, clearly overwhelmed by the whole situation.
Sam noticed too and decided to make the situation a little less intimidating. "Sergeant, can I talk to you as well?"
Zimmermann nodded and together with Sam, he left the room. After Sam closed the door behind him, Dean eyed the man again.
Mr. Johnsson opened his mouth for the first time. "Which one were you again?"
A muscle ticked in Dean's jaw. He told himself the man was traumatized and likely wasn't processing information very well at the moment. "Special Agent James. Now, can you tell me what you remember?"
Mr. Johnsson was silent long enough that Dean started to worry something was wrong with him. Then he spoke, voice unsteady. "Marge put our daughter, Jenny, to bed around eight last night. Dennis was already asleep by then. My wife and I," Mr. Johnsson's voice broke at the mention of his wife, "we went to bed around midnight. It was just after one-thirty, I know because I checked the time, that we were woken by a sound and Marge asked me to check it out." He swallowed roughly. "And that's when we were… attacked."
"Did you see who attacked you?"
He shook his head the best he could. "I never saw their faces."
They were interrupted by Sam, who re-entered the room alone. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry."
Dean ignored him. "What did you see?" he asked the man.
Mr. Johnsson looked at him in anguish. "It doesn't make any sense."
"What doesn't?" Sam chimed in.
Mr. Johnsson looked between the brothers. "I never saw their faces," he repeated, "but their clothes… Maybe they found it funny to dress up before beating Marge to death." He said with tears in his eyes.
The brothers shared a momentary glance of confusion. "Dressed as what?" they asked in unison.
When the first drop fell, others followed soon after. It took some time for his sobs to calm down. "They were, uh, they were dressed up as Saint Nicholas' servants."
Sam looked as puzzled as Dean felt. "Who?"
Mr. Johnsson tried again. "Sinterklaas?"
Dean frowned, confused. "Santa Claus?"
The man's lips twitched despite everything. "No, Sinterklaas," he pronounced each syllable with a slight foreign accent. "It's a tradition brought over from the Netherlands." When that didn't immediately clear everything up, he added, "Arrives on a steamboat? Brings kids presents on December 5th? That Saint Nicholas."
Sam grimaced in slight embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Johnsson, but we're unfamiliar with him. You say he's a tradition?"
Mr. Johnsson shifted in his bed, trying to make sense of the situation he had found himself in. "It's just some silly story for small kids. He doesn't even exist."
"But the kids believe in him?" Dean had the feeling they were finally getting somewhere.
"Yes. We let Jenny in on the secret about two years ago and she's been an angel keeping her mouth shut to her little brother." He gazed out the window, though there was nothing there but gray skies and the promise of snow in the near future. "They even got into a fight about it last night."
He didn't elaborate, so Dean was forced to ask. "Fighting about what?"
"They both received some candy yesterday morning as part of the tradition, but Dennis ate all of it almost immediately, including Jenny's. They were fighting about it the whole day and then they—" Mr. Johnsson couldn't finish his sentence. He broke into a sob.
Dean's lightbulb turned on. Gears were turning in his head. Apparently, they did in Sam's too, because now that they suddenly had the biggest clue ever dropped in their laps he was eager to go.
"All right, Mr. Johnsson, I think that's all for now. Thank you for your time." He grimaced in sympathy. "Again, we're very sorry for your loss."
Dean nodded in agreement. In an awkward attempt to soothe the guy, he grabbed the tissue box and offered it to him.
Mr. Johnsson accepted a tissue without comment. He blew his nose, staring at nothing. He was already back in his own world, blind to the other people in the room.
Having done his actual job and his fake job, it was time to leave. Dean put the tissue box down within reach of the new widower and together with Sam, left the man alone with his grief.
⁂
Sam and Dean followed the signs down to the basement, where they found the morgue. The coroner on duty, an older overweight man with an impressive mustache, accepted their badges and titles with a nod and led them to the right freezer. He pulled out Marge Johnsson, revealing a body beaten even worse than her husband. From the looks of it, she would have been in agony until she died.
"I haven't had the chance to open her up yet. They only brought her in half an hour ago." The man's mustache twitched with every word. "The poor lady's barely even cold."
Sam made a face when the coroner wasn't looking.
Dean looked her over, not commenting on the fact the coroner sticking her in the freezer might have sped up the process of cooling her. "Anything you can tell us now?" He didn't want to be anywhere near here when the poor woman got turned inside out. And they didn't plan on sticking around any longer than they had to.
The coroner examined the body before checking something on a tablet. "Cause of death is blunt force trauma. I can't officially confirm that yet, but it's extremely likely so let's go with that for now. Multiple broken ribs, one of which punctured a lung." He pointed to the left side of her body, which had evidently received a worse lashing than the right side. "After the initial blows, she fell on her side, hence the uneven wound distribution. Dislocated knee, arm broken in two places, fractured skull, none of her fingers are now straight. And I'm not even talking about the contusions and possible internal bleeding!" He pointed to every visible wound and explained the hurt beneath it in gruesome detail.
Dean had already stopped paying attention to the point that only every fifth word registered. Sam, the good little puppy that he was, was taking notes and asking the usual questions. Dean barely paid attention to those, either.
"Can we see her possessions?"
Mr. Walrustache stopped talking mid-ramble. "Oh yes, of course, of course." He grabbed an evidence bag from somewhere behind him. "It's not much, considering it was the middle of the night and you don't exactly get dressed just to get beaten to death, am I right?" He produced a nervous laugh.
Dean sighed through his nose. He wanted so badly to tell this man that he was running on maybe two minutes of sleep max and would it kill him to be a little less wordy?
Sam received Mrs. Johnsson's clothes with much more grace. "Thank you. Is there anything else?"
The coroner blinked, stared into the distance for a second, then blinked again. Clearly, he wasn't a morning person either. Right now, Dean had to agree. "Yes. Yes! She had something in her hand. Her fingers were so deformed no one noticed it until she arrived here, but she was holding this." He held up a different, smaller evidence bag for the brothers to see.
Dean squinted, trying to figure out what they were looking at. "Great. What is it?"
"Candy. Sinterklaas candy to be exact." He looked between them. "Have you agents heard of him?"
Sam nodded.
"Yeah, it rings a bell," Dean said, unwilling to open the conversation up to the fact that they had known about him for about ten minutes.
The coroner nodded. "Of course, of course. Yes, of course you've heard about him, our famous Saint Nicholas. You're the FBI, you must be very knowledgeable. I bet you can educate me on Sinterklaas." He laughed like he was among old friends. He wasn't.
Dean opened his mouth to ask what the FBI had to do with a children's story, but realized he wasn't too keen on dragging out this visit any longer than he had to. He was running on zero hours of sleep and he gave zero crap about any of this. If he ever started to give a damn, this guy would be the first to know.
Time to wrap it up. "Unless there's anything else…" Dean let the question trail off. They had better stuff to do than listening to a random guy rambling. Things like killing monsters and saving the world.
The bastard took a long moment to think about it. After what felt like an eternity, he simply said, "Nope, that's all for now."
Sam produced yet another business card. Good thing they had printed a bunch with their current aliases. "If you find anything important, let us know."
"I will, I will." He pocketed it with a grateful smile.
Dean genuinely hoped he wouldn't.
According to Sam, Captain Watson had promised the crime scene was secure and when they arrived at the Johnsson house, they found he had been true to his word. The police had cordoned off the entire house, including the yard, and a CSI team was already on the scene to collect evidence. Outside the yellow tape, people had gathered to observe the tragedy that had taken place. Dean was surprised that so many weathered the cold and the early hour for a potential glimpse of misfortune like they had nothing better to do than play disaster tourist in their own neighborhood. It was revolting.
On a brighter note, Dean loved the authority he had with his fake badge. He and Sam managed to get inside the house without any trouble. Apart from a mess in the living room, the attackers left the ground floor nearly spotless. That also meant they had left almost no evidence behind, which must have puzzled everyone on the investigation. To hunters, the absence of evidence was usually the most telling sign.
Dean noticed the drag marks before he stepped on them and carefully walked around them. He followed the trail with his eyes before following it with his feet. The CSIs had put evidence markers next to random blood spatter and broken houseware.
Most evidence markers were put down around the fireplace. Blood, ash, and bits of charred wood were scattered in front of it.
Dean leaned down and stuck his head in the fireplace. He looked into the abyss above his face and saw absolutely nothing but pitch black. "You think that's how they got in and out?" His voice sounded strangely echo-y as he spoke into the chimney.
"Yeah, probably," Sam said from behind him. "There were no signs of forced entry anywhere and they had to come in from somewhere."
"Well, it sure is a tight squeeze." Dean wiped his face when a few flakes of ash fell into his eyes. "It's a good thing they didn't try to fit the parents through there or I'd be lying in a smoothie."
"Yeah, lucky them." Sam's sarcasm didn't improve Dean's mood one bit. Then he remembered that Mother Johnsson was beaten to death and his mood worsened.
He was about to pull his head out when he noticed something being stuck in the soot-covered vent. He reached in and pulled out a piece of bright yellow cloth that was specked with blood.
"What's that?" Sam asked.
"Not sure," Dean responded. He stuck out his hand for Sam to take a look.
"Huh," was all Sam said. He truly showed his intelligence here.
Dean rolled his eyes at the non-answer. He removed his head, careful not to get any soot on his face, and considered the piece of fabric in his hand with a deep frown etched on his face Even in the better light of the room, it didn't mean anything more to him than a scrap of clothing that got torn off somehow.
A CSI appeared next to Sam uninvited and shoved an evidence bag in Dean's face.
"Yeah, yeah." Dean took it, dutifully bagged the evidence and sealed it shut. The CSI just about snatched it back from his hand and disappeared without a trace. Dean found the whole encounter to be odd, but in the grand scheme of things, it was the least of his concern right now. If those white Minions didn't want to talk to him, he wasn't interested in talking to them either.
⁂
The second floor, unlike the first, was utterly destroyed. Near the top of the stairs, between the master bedroom and what appeared to be a children's bedroom, was a large, mostly-congealed pool of blood that Dean guessed came from the mother. Before his mind could relive that moment from 31 years ago, he shut that crap straight down. The anniversary of Mary's death, about a month ago, they had celebrated by getting shitfaced drunk and not talking about their feelings. But this was not the same as back then. This was not the Yellow-Eyed Demon they were dealing with, and back then, John hadn't had Sam and Dean to hunt monsters with. This father would get his son back, and he would grieve a perfectly normal amount while he and Sam killed the son of a bitch responsible for this mess. After that, he and his family would live the quasi-normal life that one could lead after a traumatic event. This family wouldn't be cursed like the Winchesters were.
They pretended to inspect the blood-stained carpet, then moved on to where the dad had been attacked. Dean found no evidence indicating any monster he knew about had been here. He would have suspected regular humans were behind this if they hadn't appeared out of nowhere and had disappeared back into the night with the kid. His disappearance couldn't be explained by regular means, so there was definitely more going on. It was a good thing Mr. Johnsson had given them a significant clue on what could have done this, otherwise they still would have been stumped. He might have unknowingly saved his son's life. If only they knew exactly what they were dealing with.
In Dennis' bedroom, two people were searching for clues when the brothers entered. Dean was grateful there wasn't any blood spatter in here, because that hopefully meant the kid was still in one piece, though he couldn't forget about the mess around the fireplace. Hopefully, this kid didn't have to see his mom die and his dad assaulted right in front of him. If he had, his therapy subscription would probably be renewed in Heaven.
Dean watched the professionals work for a moment. Sam stood behind him in the doorway, blocking everyone who wanted to go in or out of the room. Only when someone behind them coughed, did they move out of the way.
Two of the three CSIs left, making the room suddenly almost feel empty. Sam grabbed this opportunity and used it to their advantage.
"Could you leave us alone for a sec?" He asked the remaining CSI.
They left without a comment. Apparently, CSIs weren't the chatty type. None of them had barely even dared to look in their direction, let alone talk to them. Maybe they weren't keen on strangers barging in wherever they felt like it? Dean didn't know.
Sam closed the door behind him, giving them some privacy in case someone lingered outside the room or wanted to listen in to their conversation.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Dean asked.
"They came through the chimney to kidnap the kid, the parents woke up, kidnappers kill the mom and injure the dad and take the kid with them back up the chimney," Sam summed his thoughts up.
Dean nodded. "Yep, exactly what I was thinking."
"Do you think the chimney thing is normal?"
Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I know as much about this fake Santa as you do."
"So what now? Back to the motel for some research?"
"I guess," Dean sighed. "Why don't you do that while I go do… something else, okay?"
Sam smiled at Dean's unwillingness to open a book every once in a while and do some research. "Research won't kill you."
Dean clutched his imaginary pearls. "Oh, but it might."
"I'm sure we'll find something for your illiterate ass to do that doesn't involve reading."
"Now you're talking."
When Dean entered their motel room, he saw Sam was still elbows deep in his research.
"Where have you been?" Sam asked without looking up.
Dean showed him a plastic bag. "Went on a snack run." He slumped in the chair across from Sam and unpacked his newly acquired snacks. Sam held out his hand and Dean dropped his favorite protein bar in his waiting hand. He always bought his little brother something whenever he went on a snack run. He was nice like that.
"Did you find anything else?" Sam still didn't face his brother. He unwrapped the bar and took a bite before he realized Dean had done something nice for him and his eyes finally left the screen. He held up the bar in thanks as he chewed.
"It turns out Holland's obsessed with this Saint guy's candy." Dean grabbed his newly acquired artisanal chocolate letters — S.W. and D.W. of course — and inspected them. "You know, everyone celebrates this guy like he's Jesus. Are they too good for Santa and Christmas or something?"
"Actually," Sam said as he pushed his laptop to the side, "they're celebrating Saint Nicholas' birthday. And," he added, "he predates Santa. Or rather, Santa was based off of this guy."
"You mean to tell me Santa isn't real?" Dean half-joked. After everything they had seen, it was a coin toss whether Santa was walking around somewhere as well, evil or not. "Besides, didn't we kill a Santa-like figure like five years ago?"
Sam snorted. "That was seven years ago and no, that was a pagan deity disguised as that Christmas couple, remember? With the wreaths? I don't think that, despite everything, Santa actually exists."
"Oh yeah, I remember them. I remember them saying 'fudge' was a real proper swear word," Dean spit out the last few words. "Fudge them."
"Yeah," Sam laughed shortly. He clenched the hand of which he had a fingernail pulled out. That had to have hurt like a bitch. "Good times," he said dryly.
"Good times, indeed," Dean agreed. Back then, the world had been so much simpler, where their only stress came from his then-upcoming extended vacation to Hell. During these seven years, some things had changed for the better and some other things had definitely changed for the worse. "But tell me, what are we dealing with?"
Sam hesitated. "He's, uh, a saint."
Dean's ears must not be working correctly. "I'm sorry, did you just say he's a saint? An actual, honest to God saint?"
"Yep," Sam nodded with a grimace. He pulled the laptop back in front of him. "It's in his name, really, we could've known. There's a ton of stories about him, too." He started reading from his screen. "Saint Nicholas was a Greek bishop in the early Middle Ages, and became the patron saint of sailors, merchants and children among other things." He clicked a few times for more info. "According to the lore, he saved families, children in particular, from starvation by dropping food off at their homes. And by 'dropping off food' I mean he threw it through open windows."
"So he's crazy." It was a statement, not a question.
Sam shrugged. "Maybe he felt awkward knocking on doors?"
Dean's lips quirked. "Sure, let's go with that. Go on."
Sam continued talking about his research. "A couple of centuries ago his name started popping up in stories in the Netherlands. According to those accounts, Saint Nicolas, or Sinterklaas as they call him," Sam did his best to pronounce the foreign name correctly, "arrives there on a steamboat from Spain a few weeks before his alleged birthday, December 6th. He has a bunch of servants, who go around and leave candy in the weeks leading up to his birthday in exchange for songs, letters or… carrots. Then the day before or the day of — this differs per region — Saint Nicholas visits every house with children and leaves presents. Then he leaves again on the 6th." He sounded excited and he had every right to be. This was a major breakthrough and Dean would be shocked if they were wrong.
He took a moment to process this info dump. He rubbed his tired eyes, trying to wake up a little. He should grab a bucket of coffee soon. "How does Saint Nicky leave candy? Surely he's not throwing it through a window anymore."
Sam shook his head. "Listen to this," he started again. He was on a roll. "His servants enter through the chimney. That's where the children put their traditional offerings and sing songs. So it makes sense we found that piece of clothing inside the one at the Johnsson house. They probably dragged that kid up the chimney."
Dean produced a low whistle. "Good thing they don't kidnap parents." That statement bore repeating. Something still sounded off, though. "But wait, why do they kidnap children if they deliver presents? And why carrots?"
Sam answered his questions in reverse order. "Apparently, Nicholas rides a horse, and it deserves a treat as well. As for the kidnapping, the children that believe in Saint Nicholas are warned by their parents that if they don't behave, they'll be taken back to Spain with fake Santa."
"For what? Dinner?" It would be just their luck if they had to kill a saint-turned-cannibal.
"That I don't know. None of the kids have ever returned to tell the tale." Sam's face screwed up at the thought of being taken halfway across the world only to die there without anyone knowing.
Dean shared the sentiment. He wished Bobby was here to scoff at them and tell them all the obscure fun facts after making them suffer for a hot minute. The second thought of Bobby in as many days made his heart hurt, so he quickly buried those feelings again under a thick layer of indifference. Missing Bobby was useless right now and at any other time.
"What does Nicky look like anyway?" Dean wondered aloud.
Sam suppressed a grin. He pressed a button on his laptop and turned it around so Dean could look at the screen.
Dean stared for a second before it registered what he was looking at. "He looks like the pope."
And it was true. Saint Nicholas was wearing some sort of red robe with a white dress-like thing underneath. If these things had proper names, Dean didn't know them.
Sam huffed a laugh. "Just wait till you've seen the servants." He motioned for Dean to switch tabs.
Dean's eyes widened. "So we have the pope and the Swiss Guard. Awesome. Do we know what they are?"
"That's one way to put it." Sam turned his laptop back to him. "But no. My theory is that Nicholas can control them somehow, but there's nothing about it that I can find."
If Sam couldn't then Dean definitely wouldn't.
"Let's go with that then. Okay so, we have a holy maniac who we don't know how many collaborators are kidnapping kids because they've been naughty." Dean summed up the facts.
"Later accounts confirm he has dozens if not more servants. How else can he deliver presents to so many homes?"
Dean scowled at the thought of having to kill that many monsters with only Sam to help. Was that even survivable? They needed an army of their own to handle an army of monsters. "How do you even know all this? Is there something in Dad's journal about saints?" Dean asked, even though he knew every inch of that thing inside and out, and nowhere did John ever mention saints. No one had said anything about them before, which was concerning, to say the least.
"Nope, nothing," Sam confirmed. "I don't even know if Dad ever knew saints existed. Or, currently exist, actually."
"How come we've never heard of saints before? If not even Dad knew?" Dean was still trying to wrap his mind around that fact. John had always seemed to know everything and this was a big discovery on their part.
Sam's eyes held poorly disguised pity. "Dad didn't know a lot of things, Dean."
Dean wanted to argue that John always knew more than he let on, but then he thought of all the things they learned after his death and couldn't come up with a strong argument in their dad's favor.
Sam dropped it, much to Dean's appreciation. "My guess is that they mostly stay in their own corner of the world in Europe. Or maybe most of them aren't evil?" Sam shrugged. "Saint Nicholas is a mostly Dutch tradition, and the only reason I can think of why he's here is because of Holland's obvious Dutch heritage." Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's confused expression. "It's in the name, idiot, Holland. Immigrants brought the tradition over with them and Saint Nicholas ended up here."
"Either way, we have to kill him." Dean didn't expect Sam to object and he was right.
"Yeah, no matter what, he needs to be stopped."
Glad they agreed on that topic, Dean moved on to the most important question. "So how do we kill this… monster?" Dean frowned as he thought of something. "Is he really a holy man? Are we ganking an actual saint? Or is he some kind of monster?" Maybe that would permanently forfeit their reserved spots in Heaven. Though truth be told, Dean had done it before and he would do it again if he had to.
Sam shrugged again. "Do we care?"
Dean didn't hesitate. "Actually, no. So how do we kill it? And where do we find him?"
Sam didn't miss Dean grabbing his phone and texting Cas about the subject. When Dean noticed, he shrugged, basically telling Sam "What can I say?"
Sam snorted and looked away, instead focusing on searching through his stuff. He handed Dean what he found. "In regard to your first question, according to multiple sources, he's supposed to have this big book with the names of all the naughty kids. My theory is that it kills good ol' Nick if we destroy it."
"Sounds good enough to me." And if that didn't work, they would figure out something else. Winchesters were gold medalists at improvising.
"And as for your second…" Sam paused. "I might have an idea."
Did I... Did I just reveal the monster of the week? To quote our dear Donna: You betcha!
If you've figured it out before the reveal, congrats! I'm going to assume you're European 😂
One important thing I have to mention is that I changed the lore/backstory of Saint Nicholas/Sinterklaas slightly. uBefore you start googling who Nicky might be, I have to warn you that in real life, the people portraying Nicky's servants used to, and sometimes still, use blackface./u This horrible custom has a few origin stories, I think, one of which is that they're covered in soot from going down (and then up) the chimney. No matter what the reason for it may be, I'm 10000% against the use of blackface and I have decided to stay as far away as possible from this being a thing in the spn universe. I recognize this is a very heavy subject to some, and although only very few people might want to find out more about Nicky, if I can warn just one person, I have done my job.
Can I just say I really like the first tag I used? That lets me get away with basically anything I want that falls in the spn parameters. And those are iwide/i parameters. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm not using other appropriate tags, but if you look at this fic as a spn episode, you roughly know what to expect in terms of violence/death.
If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading! It's been a wild ride writing this fic and I wouldn't change this experience for the world.