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remix_reduxTitle: It's the breathing (that's taking all this work) (The Waiting remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maharetr
Summary: Sam freezes, his blank expression twisting into horror… "Dean," he whispers. "What did you do?"
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: Violence, apocalypse AU.
Spoilers: Nil
Original fic: Fight until mercy exhales, live until death breaks bymikhale.
Author's notes: Deep love and thanks to my beta,vegetariansushi, and the person who transcribed the Latin, dairwendan. Title from "Work" by Jars of Clay.
Demons have been through the church. Hallowed ground is hallowed ground and the evil itself is long gone, but there had been something strong enough to get across the threshold and rip off doors, smash windows, and leave a fly-covered body sprawled over the front steps.
It's the first body Dean's seen all morning, and it tells him everything he needs to know about the current state of Andover, Ohio. He tries to breathe shallowly, clenching the car keys in his pocket. The Impala's hidden nearby, there's no one to mock him for being a wuss, or yell at him from shirking his duty, and it would be so easy to just drive away… but the car has barely half a tank of gas, he's down to one last ammo clip and desperately needs holy water and salt. He tries to tell himself that all of this is more important than his stomach, but he can't make himself step over the body into the church, even if his odds are better here than the post box.
There are no signs of life as he makes his way down the main street. Store windows have been forced open, and a glance through shattered glass shows him empty shelves, but he'll check them on the way back, just in case.
The post office is on a side street, away from the more obvious wreckage, but here still there's smashed glass, and leaves from the dead street trees crackle under his boots. Kneeling to pick the post box lock feels like turning his back on a hundred spying eyes, one for every empty window in the building across the street.
The lock isn't particularly complicated, but the fatigue and hunger is getting to him, and it takes a few minutes before the door of box 382 swings open under his fingertips.
Three credit card applications and one new card joins the litter on the ground, and he reaches deeper into the box, hoping for something, anything else. This is the third box he's raided this week and if it's --
His hand closes over something hard and square.
It's a cardboard package, addressed in Bobby's chicken scrawl and dated two months before everything went to shit. His chest squeezes, and he has to give himself a stern mental shake before he can start slicing the tape open with his knife. A flask of holy water is nestled in newspaper packing.
Dean leans against the wall of post boxes and whispers a barely coherent "Thank you, thank you…"
Nothing in the streets around him has changed, but with the bottle solid in his hands, the thought of picking his way through the wreckage of shops, maybe even venturing into the church, seems surmountable.
He's half way down the street when the woman staggers out of the building ahead of him. Her arm is clutching her stomach, and he has no idea what color her clothes used to be, only that they are now red. She's dying even as she sways, locks onto him and falters two steps towards him, but he has to try something, so he's jerking his shirt off, balling it up even as he recites by rote:
"Exorcisámus te, omnis immúnde spíritus…"
Hell is everywhere; Christo doesn't cut it as demon-repellant anymore. She staggers, but her eyes open as she falls, and they're blue and human and terrified, so he lunges the last few yards and grabs her around the shoulders, sinking to the ground with her.
"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, I've got you." She groans as he presses the makeshift compress against her stomach wound. Her head is heavy against his arm, an earring scratching his inner arm. She's trying to speak, lips moving, shaping barely audible words. Her hands flex involuntarily in pain, clawing at his shoulder and across to his amulet swinging between them, until he's forced to lower his head to stop the leather thong snapping.
"Please," she gasps. "Please, please…"
Dean doesn't know if she's begging him to save her or kill her. He doesn't have the ability or the strength to do either, but he leans closer, trying to soothe without jarring her.
"It's going to be okay," he whispers. It's not a lie, as far as he cares: anything is better than here.
He stays bent over her until, by degrees, she stills, and her hand falls away from the amulet. He closes her eyes for her.
~*~
The woman had staggered from the library, and the smell of warm coppery blood assails him when he steps inside. It's far too strong to be just from her injuries, but Dean traces her steps back across the library. There are books everywhere; none of them on shelves, but this is the methodical destruction of demons rather than panicking humans: torn covers and paper strewn like confetti, computers smashed.
The blood trail leads across the floor to a narrow archway in the far wall that in turn leads into a dim corridor. There are more stains here, older and rust-colored, and the smell from within is enough to make him retch: blood so thick he can taste it, and mixed with that, decaying flesh.
Dean pulls the flashlight from his duffle and loosens the lid on the holy water before he steps over the fallen "staff only" sign. There are three rooms of what used to be offices, and he shines the light in each just long enough to be sure: demons have been killing people in here.
He backs out into the library, struggling to settle his stomach and consider his position. The salt is keeping the Impala as safe as he can make it, and it's hours before sunset. He has time for this.
~*~
Dean sits silently in the closet of one of the offices, the one he's examined the least. It's easier to sit in the dark that way. He stops himself trying to count the minutes and the hours, until he can almost believe there's never been anything but darkness, or that he's spent the last few months with his eyes closed, dreaming, and all he has to do is open them…
The demon isn't subtle coming home. It crashes its way through the doors and across the library. Dean can picture it kicking at debris, because it can. Even with the racket, the demon manages to announce its presence through smell: sulfur and decay. The footsteps pass Dean in the corridor, and he waits a few seconds, holding his breath, before stepping out and flicking on the flashlight.
The demon freezes in the harsh glare. It looks like the result of someone creating a human based on rumored description: there are identifiable limbs, but the fingers are too long, and its face is hard angled and shadowed eyes. The demon looks up with mock-admiration at the trap sketched on the ceiling and bares its teeth in what could be mistaken for a smile.
"What are you going to do," it sneers, "send me to hell?"
It laughs chillingly, and Dean shudders: point taken. He refocuses with a deep breath, staring through the demon. The wall behind it isn't as blank as he'd like to make his mind, but he steers his thoughts away from the bloodstains and begins.
"Exorcisámus te, omnis immúnde spíritus…"
The demon flinches, an entirely inhuman jerk of the head.
"…omnis satánica potéstas, omnis incúrsio infernális adversárii…" Dean keeps his voice steady. The demon whines in its throat, then straightens slightly and steps in front of Dean's gaze.
"I'll say 'hi' to Sammy when I get down there, shall I?"
The incantation freezes in Dean's throat. Demons lie, he thinks, and forces himself to keep going.
"Omnis legio, omnis --"
"He's been down there for weeks," the demon whispers, baring his teeth again. "All the master's children are, but he's special. The master likes him, likes the way he screams…"
Dean throws the holy water out of pure reflex. The demon howls, and the smell of seared flesh joins the rest of the stench.
Demons lie, but if there is some way, any way…
"How do I get him back?" Dean tries for offhand, flighting the adrenaline that would make his hands shake.
"You can't," the demon snarls, but when Dean steps up to the edge of the circle and raises the bottle, the demon backs away.
"Tell me how to get him back," Dean says softly, "and maybe we can come to an agreement."
The demon starts to laugh.
"Omnis congregátio et secta diabólica." Dean says, and it sways, groaning. He adds more holy water for good measure, and the demon staggers and falls; Dean crouches beside it, just outside the circle.
"You know who I am," he says softly. "Can you imagine fronting up to your master and explaining how you let Dean Winchester get away?"
The demon doesn't seem to have the strength to raise its head, but its eyes widen.
"The Hecate," it wheezes. "They might take…" It raises a hand and points to Dean's chest. "…take that."
Dean risks glance at the amulet. He forces down the swell of hope, hides it under a sneer.
"This? My dad gave it to you when I was a kid. Crossroad gods don't go for cheap metal."
"John Winchester gave it to you," the demon corrects, and tries to get to its knees.
"Ergo, draco maledicte," Dean says absently, remembering the graveyards of Lawrence; how the only green he'd seen in months grew where his dad had fallen.
He affects a shrug, waves the bottle threateningly. "How do I find them?"
"They find you," it cries, flinching back. "I swear -- that's all I know."
Dean considers this. Finally, he nods.
"I believe you. Thanks, man." He pauses, and waits for the demon to relax a fraction before he begins again. "Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis légio diabólica te…"
~*~
Dawn is lightening the sky by the time he gets back to the Impala. A fast search of the shops along Main Street has netted him a new shirt, one size too large but wearable. The church had been thoroughly desecrated.
He collects as much salt as he can from the lines protecting the car and gets moving. 'They find you' aren't exactly the most useful directions he's ever been given, but putting as much distance between himself and Andover as possible seems like a good start.
He heads back out along route 6 to avoid the morning glare. It's not like a lack of destination has ever cramped his style before, but he finds himself hesitating at a stop sign of all things.
There's a convenience store attached to a gas station on the opposite side of the intersection, and he stares at it for a while. It'll be as empty as everything else he's come across in Ohio: food long gone, no useful weapons.
Dean parks across three bays of the store's parking lot and shoulders his way through the broken door into the dim, wrecked store.
The Hecate stand in the middle of the room, shelves pushed aside to make space for them; a circle of empty space in the middle of the mess. Only the middle-aged woman is facing him, the older and younger showing their profiles to the left and right. All have their eyes closed, ignoring him. He doesn't know if there's some ritualistic way to approach them, but he knows how he feels like approaching them and he stalks up to them, boots crunching over broken glass and debris, weapon drawn.
"Hey," he says. "I heard you could get my brother back."
They are silent. He's tempted to fire a shot into the ceiling, to see if that would get their attention, but he thinks better of it and tucks the Berretta back into the waistband of his jeans.
The Hecate in the middle opens her eyes. Her irises are almost as pale as her skin. She tilts her head and smiles. It's not a nice expression.
"He means much to you," she says. "He has… meant much to those who have him, too. We can return him to you -- for appropriate payment -- but he will not be the person you remember. He will not have much time."
Dean shrugs, even as sweat prickles across his back and down his sides. "Whatever. It looks like none of us do. Hand him over."
"Payment," the one on the right whispers, an inhuman rasp that makes Dean's skin crawl with goose bumps, even as he sweats. He reaches under his shirt and pulls out the amulet, displaying it on the back of his hand.
"You want this, right?" There's no time for pride at how steady his voice is, no space for anything but maintaining eye contact and keeping his hands from shaking. The thing on the right breaks the staring contest first: once she looks down at the amulet, she can't seem to look away and Dean dares to breathe.
He pulls it over his head, the first time it's been free from his neck in… he can't remember. It doesn't matter. He holds it out, offering the thong on two fingers in the hope that those hands won't touch him.
The one on the right reaches out and grabs his wrist, hard. It's cold, enough to feel like his blood is freezing, and to make him gasp from the ache that shoots all the way to his shoulder. She strokes the fingers of her free hand over the back of his, lingering, then snatches the thong away and releases him.
He lets his hand fall back to his side without looking down; he can imagine blackened, frostbitten fingers without the visuals. The one on the right holds the amulet above her head, tilting her head back as if contemplating a delicacy, then she opens her mouth, snaps her teeth closed over the amulet and swallows it.
Dean nearly shouts -- he knows his eyes widen -- but she's throwing the remains of the thong to his feet, shrugging as if it were merely passable. He fights down his shock, and settles for a mutinous thought: I hope it gives you heartburn, bitch.
The Hecate on the left stirs and opens her eyes. She doesn't turn her head, doesn't look at him, but she extends an arm, and opens her hand to reveal an empty, clear vial nestled on her palm.
"Sacrifice," she says. Dean schools his expression to neutral as he plucks the glass tube from her hand and unscrews the lid. Despite the cold ache, his fingers are still pink, still alive and useable. He's kneeling, warily, pulling the knife free from his boot, when he hears the schting of a drawn blade.
There's a curved knife so close his nose he can't quite focus on it properly.
"On our terms," the old one says.
"Fine," Dean mutters, and stands, rolling up his sleeve and taking the weapon from her hand. The blade isn't cold, as he'd feared, it just hurts like fuck as he cuts into his forearm. He throws the knife to the left one's feet, trying to look disinterested as his blood pools in his elbow and drips to the floor before he can get the vial under the flow.
"You want to eat this, too?" he asks as he struggles to get the lid back on, the container so slippery he's not sure what's inside it and what's smeared over the outside.
The old one takes the vial back without a word, but the other two are silent as well, their eyes closed.
"Hey," Dean says sharply, and he can't keep the fear out of his voice this time. He clamps his hand over the gash and glares. "Hand him the fuck over."
The middle one opens her eyes and there's… sympathy there. Fear curdles into terror in his stomach. There's an hourglass cradled in her hands, and he's beyond caring how it go there, or why, he just wants out of there with Sam by his side.
"A hundred days," she says softly, holding up the hourglass. It's small enough to fit comfortably in her palm, but that's still not enough to make the amount of sand inside look anything but pitiful.
"Then what?" Dean snarls. Her lips part, almost as if she's hesitating, then --
He can't separate what happens first, only that the Hecate is gone and there is a crashing from the back of the store.
Earthquake Dean thinks as things start vibrating across the floor, as the dead light bulbs shatter above him, but he has no trouble staying on his feet as he lunges across the room.
"Sam!"
Dean can't see him, but the door marked "no admittance" is almost vibrating out of its frame. The knob won't turn in his grip. He bangs awkwardly on the door with one fist. "Sam!"
Everything stops. The silence makes his ears ring, but Dean can make out the sound of ragged breathing on the other side of the door.
"Sammy? You in there? It's me, man --"
The door swings outward, forcing Dean back a step. Sam's hunched in the far corner, arms up to shield his face, knees up to his chest, sobbing. His clothes are in tatters, his feet bare and grubby, but there's no injury that Dean can see.
Dean grips the doorframe with his free hand to stop himself from lunging forward. Fuck, he doesn't want to have to, but he licks his lips and begins:
""Exorcisámus te…"
Sam chokes, then waveringly picks up the chant and reaches for him, so it doesn't matter than they're both crying too hard to recite the rest.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, almost stumbling into the room, ignoring the gash to get his arms around his brother, and Sam clings back.
"Dean," Sam says, his voice muffled in Dean's shoulder. "Are you bleeding?"
"Just a scratch," he replies, but he loosens his hold and sits back against the wall to press his hand against the gash again.
Sam's staring at him. "That needs stitches. What happened?" Sam tears a strip off his shirt -- the fabric looks like it's been clawed, and even though Sam doesn't look hurt, Dean's stomach twists. Sam's hands are steady as they bind the cut.
Dean manages a smile. "I'm not the one we should be worrying about." Sam, in fact, looks perfectly healthy, if exhausted. He's certainly the first to get to his feet. Dean shifts to get his own legs under him, but they don't want to move. His arm is starting to throb abominably, and the hunger and fatigue he's been trying to ignore comes crashing down. The world tilts alarmingly, and he has to close his eyes and breathe to make sure he won't throw up.
When the world's steadied, Sam reaches out a hand.
"Where are we?" he asks.
"Ohio," Dean says, struggling to his feet.
"Ohio? Why the hell are we in --." Sam's turned, and caught sight of the rest of the store.
"Did I do that?" he whispers.
"Only a bit. Looters got here first."
"How bad is it?"
Dean presses closer against him.
"Dad's dead." Sam can find out about the rest of the country later.
Sam makes a pained noise in the back of his throat and stumbles out to one of the shelves, using it to hold him up. It still holds cheap kids toys, and other plastic, useless things.
""He took as many of those sons of bitches as he could," Dean says. "He went down swinging."
Sam nods, but he doesn't straighten up until he stops trembling. When he turns around, he's clutching something small and brightly colored. A Rubik's cube. Dean shrugs.
"C'mon," he says softly. Sam moves willingly enough, but his shoulders are hunched, eyes fixed on the floor. Dean studies him covertly as they pick their way across the store: he's not limping, doesn't appear to be in pain, but the blank expression that's slowly descending over his face is starting to spook Dean.
Then Sam freezes, the blank expression twisting into horror, and Dean wants the blankness back.
"Dean," he whispers. "Dean, what did you do?"
Dean follows Sam's stare to the now tacky puddle of blood, and the remains of the leather thong. The hourglass is there too, and Dean casually strides forward and picks it up, sliding it into his jeans' pocket while Sam is still too confused to react. Dean forces a smile.
"No big deal," he says. "Just a bit of negotiating."
Sam's opening his mouth, looking like he's about to object, but then he seems to pause and think better of it.
"What do we do now?" he asks instead.
Dean shrugs. "Get out of here."
~*~
They stop for the night somewhere in Illinois.
Sam sleeps, his head pillowed on Dean's thigh. Dean has one hand tangled in Sam's hair, and pokes the bonfire with a stick occasionally. The Beretta and the last of the holy water is in easy reach by his side.
The one time Dean took his hand from Sam's head, tiny black lines, barely visible in the firelight, began to creep up Sam's fingers where they touched the bare earth. When Dean had grabbed Sam's hand, fear making his heart beat triple-time in his chest, the lines had retreated.
Now, Dean does not take his hand from Sam's hair. He sits quietly, and waits to see if Sam will wake.
Author:
maharetrSummary: Sam freezes, his blank expression twisting into horror… "Dean," he whispers. "What did you do?"
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: Violence, apocalypse AU.
Spoilers: Nil
Original fic: Fight until mercy exhales, live until death breaks by
mikhale.Author's notes: Deep love and thanks to my beta,
vegetariansushi, and the person who transcribed the Latin, dairwendan. Title from "Work" by Jars of Clay.Demons have been through the church. Hallowed ground is hallowed ground and the evil itself is long gone, but there had been something strong enough to get across the threshold and rip off doors, smash windows, and leave a fly-covered body sprawled over the front steps.
It's the first body Dean's seen all morning, and it tells him everything he needs to know about the current state of Andover, Ohio. He tries to breathe shallowly, clenching the car keys in his pocket. The Impala's hidden nearby, there's no one to mock him for being a wuss, or yell at him from shirking his duty, and it would be so easy to just drive away… but the car has barely half a tank of gas, he's down to one last ammo clip and desperately needs holy water and salt. He tries to tell himself that all of this is more important than his stomach, but he can't make himself step over the body into the church, even if his odds are better here than the post box.
There are no signs of life as he makes his way down the main street. Store windows have been forced open, and a glance through shattered glass shows him empty shelves, but he'll check them on the way back, just in case.
The post office is on a side street, away from the more obvious wreckage, but here still there's smashed glass, and leaves from the dead street trees crackle under his boots. Kneeling to pick the post box lock feels like turning his back on a hundred spying eyes, one for every empty window in the building across the street.
The lock isn't particularly complicated, but the fatigue and hunger is getting to him, and it takes a few minutes before the door of box 382 swings open under his fingertips.
Three credit card applications and one new card joins the litter on the ground, and he reaches deeper into the box, hoping for something, anything else. This is the third box he's raided this week and if it's --
His hand closes over something hard and square.
It's a cardboard package, addressed in Bobby's chicken scrawl and dated two months before everything went to shit. His chest squeezes, and he has to give himself a stern mental shake before he can start slicing the tape open with his knife. A flask of holy water is nestled in newspaper packing.
Dean leans against the wall of post boxes and whispers a barely coherent "Thank you, thank you…"
Nothing in the streets around him has changed, but with the bottle solid in his hands, the thought of picking his way through the wreckage of shops, maybe even venturing into the church, seems surmountable.
He's half way down the street when the woman staggers out of the building ahead of him. Her arm is clutching her stomach, and he has no idea what color her clothes used to be, only that they are now red. She's dying even as she sways, locks onto him and falters two steps towards him, but he has to try something, so he's jerking his shirt off, balling it up even as he recites by rote:
"Exorcisámus te, omnis immúnde spíritus…"
Hell is everywhere; Christo doesn't cut it as demon-repellant anymore. She staggers, but her eyes open as she falls, and they're blue and human and terrified, so he lunges the last few yards and grabs her around the shoulders, sinking to the ground with her.
"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, I've got you." She groans as he presses the makeshift compress against her stomach wound. Her head is heavy against his arm, an earring scratching his inner arm. She's trying to speak, lips moving, shaping barely audible words. Her hands flex involuntarily in pain, clawing at his shoulder and across to his amulet swinging between them, until he's forced to lower his head to stop the leather thong snapping.
"Please," she gasps. "Please, please…"
Dean doesn't know if she's begging him to save her or kill her. He doesn't have the ability or the strength to do either, but he leans closer, trying to soothe without jarring her.
"It's going to be okay," he whispers. It's not a lie, as far as he cares: anything is better than here.
He stays bent over her until, by degrees, she stills, and her hand falls away from the amulet. He closes her eyes for her.
~*~
The woman had staggered from the library, and the smell of warm coppery blood assails him when he steps inside. It's far too strong to be just from her injuries, but Dean traces her steps back across the library. There are books everywhere; none of them on shelves, but this is the methodical destruction of demons rather than panicking humans: torn covers and paper strewn like confetti, computers smashed.
The blood trail leads across the floor to a narrow archway in the far wall that in turn leads into a dim corridor. There are more stains here, older and rust-colored, and the smell from within is enough to make him retch: blood so thick he can taste it, and mixed with that, decaying flesh.
Dean pulls the flashlight from his duffle and loosens the lid on the holy water before he steps over the fallen "staff only" sign. There are three rooms of what used to be offices, and he shines the light in each just long enough to be sure: demons have been killing people in here.
He backs out into the library, struggling to settle his stomach and consider his position. The salt is keeping the Impala as safe as he can make it, and it's hours before sunset. He has time for this.
~*~
Dean sits silently in the closet of one of the offices, the one he's examined the least. It's easier to sit in the dark that way. He stops himself trying to count the minutes and the hours, until he can almost believe there's never been anything but darkness, or that he's spent the last few months with his eyes closed, dreaming, and all he has to do is open them…
The demon isn't subtle coming home. It crashes its way through the doors and across the library. Dean can picture it kicking at debris, because it can. Even with the racket, the demon manages to announce its presence through smell: sulfur and decay. The footsteps pass Dean in the corridor, and he waits a few seconds, holding his breath, before stepping out and flicking on the flashlight.
The demon freezes in the harsh glare. It looks like the result of someone creating a human based on rumored description: there are identifiable limbs, but the fingers are too long, and its face is hard angled and shadowed eyes. The demon looks up with mock-admiration at the trap sketched on the ceiling and bares its teeth in what could be mistaken for a smile.
"What are you going to do," it sneers, "send me to hell?"
It laughs chillingly, and Dean shudders: point taken. He refocuses with a deep breath, staring through the demon. The wall behind it isn't as blank as he'd like to make his mind, but he steers his thoughts away from the bloodstains and begins.
"Exorcisámus te, omnis immúnde spíritus…"
The demon flinches, an entirely inhuman jerk of the head.
"…omnis satánica potéstas, omnis incúrsio infernális adversárii…" Dean keeps his voice steady. The demon whines in its throat, then straightens slightly and steps in front of Dean's gaze.
"I'll say 'hi' to Sammy when I get down there, shall I?"
The incantation freezes in Dean's throat. Demons lie, he thinks, and forces himself to keep going.
"Omnis legio, omnis --"
"He's been down there for weeks," the demon whispers, baring his teeth again. "All the master's children are, but he's special. The master likes him, likes the way he screams…"
Dean throws the holy water out of pure reflex. The demon howls, and the smell of seared flesh joins the rest of the stench.
Demons lie, but if there is some way, any way…
"How do I get him back?" Dean tries for offhand, flighting the adrenaline that would make his hands shake.
"You can't," the demon snarls, but when Dean steps up to the edge of the circle and raises the bottle, the demon backs away.
"Tell me how to get him back," Dean says softly, "and maybe we can come to an agreement."
The demon starts to laugh.
"Omnis congregátio et secta diabólica." Dean says, and it sways, groaning. He adds more holy water for good measure, and the demon staggers and falls; Dean crouches beside it, just outside the circle.
"You know who I am," he says softly. "Can you imagine fronting up to your master and explaining how you let Dean Winchester get away?"
The demon doesn't seem to have the strength to raise its head, but its eyes widen.
"The Hecate," it wheezes. "They might take…" It raises a hand and points to Dean's chest. "…take that."
Dean risks glance at the amulet. He forces down the swell of hope, hides it under a sneer.
"This? My dad gave it to you when I was a kid. Crossroad gods don't go for cheap metal."
"John Winchester gave it to you," the demon corrects, and tries to get to its knees.
"Ergo, draco maledicte," Dean says absently, remembering the graveyards of Lawrence; how the only green he'd seen in months grew where his dad had fallen.
He affects a shrug, waves the bottle threateningly. "How do I find them?"
"They find you," it cries, flinching back. "I swear -- that's all I know."
Dean considers this. Finally, he nods.
"I believe you. Thanks, man." He pauses, and waits for the demon to relax a fraction before he begins again. "Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis légio diabólica te…"
~*~
Dawn is lightening the sky by the time he gets back to the Impala. A fast search of the shops along Main Street has netted him a new shirt, one size too large but wearable. The church had been thoroughly desecrated.
He collects as much salt as he can from the lines protecting the car and gets moving. 'They find you' aren't exactly the most useful directions he's ever been given, but putting as much distance between himself and Andover as possible seems like a good start.
He heads back out along route 6 to avoid the morning glare. It's not like a lack of destination has ever cramped his style before, but he finds himself hesitating at a stop sign of all things.
There's a convenience store attached to a gas station on the opposite side of the intersection, and he stares at it for a while. It'll be as empty as everything else he's come across in Ohio: food long gone, no useful weapons.
Dean parks across three bays of the store's parking lot and shoulders his way through the broken door into the dim, wrecked store.
The Hecate stand in the middle of the room, shelves pushed aside to make space for them; a circle of empty space in the middle of the mess. Only the middle-aged woman is facing him, the older and younger showing their profiles to the left and right. All have their eyes closed, ignoring him. He doesn't know if there's some ritualistic way to approach them, but he knows how he feels like approaching them and he stalks up to them, boots crunching over broken glass and debris, weapon drawn.
"Hey," he says. "I heard you could get my brother back."
They are silent. He's tempted to fire a shot into the ceiling, to see if that would get their attention, but he thinks better of it and tucks the Berretta back into the waistband of his jeans.
The Hecate in the middle opens her eyes. Her irises are almost as pale as her skin. She tilts her head and smiles. It's not a nice expression.
"He means much to you," she says. "He has… meant much to those who have him, too. We can return him to you -- for appropriate payment -- but he will not be the person you remember. He will not have much time."
Dean shrugs, even as sweat prickles across his back and down his sides. "Whatever. It looks like none of us do. Hand him over."
"Payment," the one on the right whispers, an inhuman rasp that makes Dean's skin crawl with goose bumps, even as he sweats. He reaches under his shirt and pulls out the amulet, displaying it on the back of his hand.
"You want this, right?" There's no time for pride at how steady his voice is, no space for anything but maintaining eye contact and keeping his hands from shaking. The thing on the right breaks the staring contest first: once she looks down at the amulet, she can't seem to look away and Dean dares to breathe.
He pulls it over his head, the first time it's been free from his neck in… he can't remember. It doesn't matter. He holds it out, offering the thong on two fingers in the hope that those hands won't touch him.
The one on the right reaches out and grabs his wrist, hard. It's cold, enough to feel like his blood is freezing, and to make him gasp from the ache that shoots all the way to his shoulder. She strokes the fingers of her free hand over the back of his, lingering, then snatches the thong away and releases him.
He lets his hand fall back to his side without looking down; he can imagine blackened, frostbitten fingers without the visuals. The one on the right holds the amulet above her head, tilting her head back as if contemplating a delicacy, then she opens her mouth, snaps her teeth closed over the amulet and swallows it.
Dean nearly shouts -- he knows his eyes widen -- but she's throwing the remains of the thong to his feet, shrugging as if it were merely passable. He fights down his shock, and settles for a mutinous thought: I hope it gives you heartburn, bitch.
The Hecate on the left stirs and opens her eyes. She doesn't turn her head, doesn't look at him, but she extends an arm, and opens her hand to reveal an empty, clear vial nestled on her palm.
"Sacrifice," she says. Dean schools his expression to neutral as he plucks the glass tube from her hand and unscrews the lid. Despite the cold ache, his fingers are still pink, still alive and useable. He's kneeling, warily, pulling the knife free from his boot, when he hears the schting of a drawn blade.
There's a curved knife so close his nose he can't quite focus on it properly.
"On our terms," the old one says.
"Fine," Dean mutters, and stands, rolling up his sleeve and taking the weapon from her hand. The blade isn't cold, as he'd feared, it just hurts like fuck as he cuts into his forearm. He throws the knife to the left one's feet, trying to look disinterested as his blood pools in his elbow and drips to the floor before he can get the vial under the flow.
"You want to eat this, too?" he asks as he struggles to get the lid back on, the container so slippery he's not sure what's inside it and what's smeared over the outside.
The old one takes the vial back without a word, but the other two are silent as well, their eyes closed.
"Hey," Dean says sharply, and he can't keep the fear out of his voice this time. He clamps his hand over the gash and glares. "Hand him the fuck over."
The middle one opens her eyes and there's… sympathy there. Fear curdles into terror in his stomach. There's an hourglass cradled in her hands, and he's beyond caring how it go there, or why, he just wants out of there with Sam by his side.
"A hundred days," she says softly, holding up the hourglass. It's small enough to fit comfortably in her palm, but that's still not enough to make the amount of sand inside look anything but pitiful.
"Then what?" Dean snarls. Her lips part, almost as if she's hesitating, then --
He can't separate what happens first, only that the Hecate is gone and there is a crashing from the back of the store.
Earthquake Dean thinks as things start vibrating across the floor, as the dead light bulbs shatter above him, but he has no trouble staying on his feet as he lunges across the room.
"Sam!"
Dean can't see him, but the door marked "no admittance" is almost vibrating out of its frame. The knob won't turn in his grip. He bangs awkwardly on the door with one fist. "Sam!"
Everything stops. The silence makes his ears ring, but Dean can make out the sound of ragged breathing on the other side of the door.
"Sammy? You in there? It's me, man --"
The door swings outward, forcing Dean back a step. Sam's hunched in the far corner, arms up to shield his face, knees up to his chest, sobbing. His clothes are in tatters, his feet bare and grubby, but there's no injury that Dean can see.
Dean grips the doorframe with his free hand to stop himself from lunging forward. Fuck, he doesn't want to have to, but he licks his lips and begins:
""Exorcisámus te…"
Sam chokes, then waveringly picks up the chant and reaches for him, so it doesn't matter than they're both crying too hard to recite the rest.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, almost stumbling into the room, ignoring the gash to get his arms around his brother, and Sam clings back.
"Dean," Sam says, his voice muffled in Dean's shoulder. "Are you bleeding?"
"Just a scratch," he replies, but he loosens his hold and sits back against the wall to press his hand against the gash again.
Sam's staring at him. "That needs stitches. What happened?" Sam tears a strip off his shirt -- the fabric looks like it's been clawed, and even though Sam doesn't look hurt, Dean's stomach twists. Sam's hands are steady as they bind the cut.
Dean manages a smile. "I'm not the one we should be worrying about." Sam, in fact, looks perfectly healthy, if exhausted. He's certainly the first to get to his feet. Dean shifts to get his own legs under him, but they don't want to move. His arm is starting to throb abominably, and the hunger and fatigue he's been trying to ignore comes crashing down. The world tilts alarmingly, and he has to close his eyes and breathe to make sure he won't throw up.
When the world's steadied, Sam reaches out a hand.
"Where are we?" he asks.
"Ohio," Dean says, struggling to his feet.
"Ohio? Why the hell are we in --." Sam's turned, and caught sight of the rest of the store.
"Did I do that?" he whispers.
"Only a bit. Looters got here first."
"How bad is it?"
Dean presses closer against him.
"Dad's dead." Sam can find out about the rest of the country later.
Sam makes a pained noise in the back of his throat and stumbles out to one of the shelves, using it to hold him up. It still holds cheap kids toys, and other plastic, useless things.
""He took as many of those sons of bitches as he could," Dean says. "He went down swinging."
Sam nods, but he doesn't straighten up until he stops trembling. When he turns around, he's clutching something small and brightly colored. A Rubik's cube. Dean shrugs.
"C'mon," he says softly. Sam moves willingly enough, but his shoulders are hunched, eyes fixed on the floor. Dean studies him covertly as they pick their way across the store: he's not limping, doesn't appear to be in pain, but the blank expression that's slowly descending over his face is starting to spook Dean.
Then Sam freezes, the blank expression twisting into horror, and Dean wants the blankness back.
"Dean," he whispers. "Dean, what did you do?"
Dean follows Sam's stare to the now tacky puddle of blood, and the remains of the leather thong. The hourglass is there too, and Dean casually strides forward and picks it up, sliding it into his jeans' pocket while Sam is still too confused to react. Dean forces a smile.
"No big deal," he says. "Just a bit of negotiating."
Sam's opening his mouth, looking like he's about to object, but then he seems to pause and think better of it.
"What do we do now?" he asks instead.
Dean shrugs. "Get out of here."
~*~
They stop for the night somewhere in Illinois.
Sam sleeps, his head pillowed on Dean's thigh. Dean has one hand tangled in Sam's hair, and pokes the bonfire with a stick occasionally. The Beretta and the last of the holy water is in easy reach by his side.
The one time Dean took his hand from Sam's head, tiny black lines, barely visible in the firelight, began to creep up Sam's fingers where they touched the bare earth. When Dean had grabbed Sam's hand, fear making his heart beat triple-time in his chest, the lines had retreated.
Now, Dean does not take his hand from Sam's hair. He sits quietly, and waits to see if Sam will wake.
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-23 04:18 am (UTC)I've spent quite a lot of time outside spn fandom--hell, fandom in general. After reading this remix, though, you make me miss it somethin' awful.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 02:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-23 06:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 02:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-26 08:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 02:35 pm (UTC)I really wanted to be able to work the "He'd still call you Sammy" line in somewhere, because it killed me dead, but alas. You have a gorgeous way of writing, and it was a (somewhat nerve-wracking!) pleasure to have as a first remix. Again, thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-29 02:59 am (UTC)Oh, awesome. I love the matter-of-fact way Dean betrays the deal with the demon and handles the Hecate. Great images, and the final bit with the constant contact is chilling.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 02:42 pm (UTC)