Hark the Herald - summergen fic
Oct. 5th, 2015 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberdreamsMy second summergen fill - fic this time. Thanks to everyone who already left comments back on the comm!
Title: Hark the Herald – he’s no Angel.
Creator:
amberdreams
Recipient:
evelyncarver
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~3700
Warnings: none
Author’s note: evelyncarver asked for a crossover with The Cabin in the Woods. The year of the movie’s release actually fit quite nicely with Season 7, so this fic is set at some unspecified time shortly after The Born Again Identity, and immediately after the ending of The Cabin in the Woods. Hopefully you won’t need to have seen the movie to make sense of the story.
Thanks to my beta
sophiap who made this so much better!
Summary: Sam is newly restored to himself after Cas took on the Lucifer hallucinations. To celebrate, the Winchesters take on a case in a forest, and uncover a strange story of Ancient Gods and sacrifice.
Hark the Herald – he’s no Angel.
****
“I’m not hiking,” Dean declared. “Or camping.”
He was keen to lay down ground rules from the start, because he knew how these cases so easily spiralled out of control. It was already bad enough. Looking at the maps Dean was wincing in advance at the strain on their latest stolen car’s suspension on all those rough track forest roads. It was the first time in a long time he was actually glad Baby was hidden away in storage.
Sam hand-waved Dean’s concerns, without bothering to offer any reassurance. Did he not care about Dean’s loathing of mosquito-infested wilderness, dammit? Then Sam brought out the puppy eyes at full strength, which just wasn’t fair.
“At least fifteen kids have gone missing in unexplained circumstances over the last fifteen years in this same area, Dean. Each in batches of five, at five-year intervals. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, it’s a case all right. But are you sure you’re up to it? It’s only a few days since we busted you out of the funny farm.”
Sam’s frown was ominous, and Dean winced a little inside. He thought he was doing a good impression of insouciance though (stoner Cas from 2014 would have been so proud). He waited for Sam’s response with arms folded and one eyebrow quirked.
“If you are trying to ask if Cas really succeeded in cleaning Lucifer out of my head, then why don’t you just come right out and say it, Dean? Are you worried I’m going to fall apart the first time we come up against a monster because my mind is so fragile?”
“Well, are you?”
“What, am I going to fall apart or am I fragile?”
“Either! Both!” Dean was gripping both biceps tightly to stop himself from flailing his arms around. He knew it made him look defensive, his crossed arms a barrier between him and his brother, but honestly, better defensive than aggressive with Sam these days. Fuck, how did everything get so tense, so quick?
He brought out the one argument he knew worked every time, low blow through it was. “Come on, Sammy. This shit is important. I need to know you’ve got my back out there.” I need to know you aren’t going to freeze on me and get yourself killed, is what Dean wanted to say, but couldn’t.
Whatever, it got Sam in the car and their show on the road.
Sam was angry and hurt now, but that was okay, it meant he was all fired up and ready to turn that anger on whatever fugly waited for them in the wilds of Minnesota. Dean couldn’t help sneaking sideways glances at Sam in the shotgun seat all the way to Duluth and beyond, as they drove north into the Superior National Park. No sign of twitchiness, no frantic pressing on the scarred hand. Instead Sam alternately grumped about Dean’s choice of music, talked random shit about the local legends and lore of the places they were passing through, or slept with his head resting on the window, mouth open and snoring. It almost felt like everything was back to normal. So yeah, Dean would take it.
In Isabella, a scattering of buildings along State Highway 1 that pretended to be a town, they found a motel called Moose Ridge. Dean got a slap round the back of his head for sniggering at the name.
“Come on, Sam, Moose Ridge? It is a little bit funny…”
“Nothing Crowley says is the remotest bit funny, Dean.”
They showered and Dean reluctantly changed into his FBI identity at Sam’s command, though in Dean’s opinion, Sam’s insistence was entirely down to how much Dean hated wearing a suit. Clearly little bro hadn’t forgiven Dean for implying he was fragile.
Suiting up was totally wasted anyhow, as first they could hardly find a single inhabitant in Isabella, and second, those few hardy souls they did manage to nail down couldn’t tell them anything about the missing students. There were no legends, no clues to follow, there wasn’t even any gossip to be had.
“Man, this place is deader than a Romero flick,” Dean grumbled, loosening his tie. Sam helpfully tightened it and put it straight again without even breaking stride. Sometimes Dean hated his little brother’s attention to detail.
It was only when they stopped for gas a few miles past Isabella, carrying on up State Highway 1, they got their first real lead. The gas station looked abandoned, but the pumps were working, starting to hum when Dean yanked the hose out of its bracket. That seemed to activate the attendant too, as if he was wired into the pumps. He appeared from the dark depths of the single story building with an alacrity that was startling for such a big shambling guy.
Dean let Sam strike up a conversation while he wandered inside to inspect the merchandise, such as it was. It didn’t look like the shelves had been stocked since 1978. The single bottle of rot-gut was covered with such a thick layer of dust the label was barely readable, so Dean picked up a six pack of El Sol. Which he nearly dropped when he tuned into the conversation.
Mordecai. The creepy gas station guy’s name was fucking Mordecai. Dean didn’t have good associations for that name, nope. He remembered an axe, kids dying, and then Sam had to drag him outside, get him to calm down.
“There’s no connection, Dean, this is just a crazy guy; he’s not a tulpa, okay?”
Dean leant his butt against the heap of crap that was pretending to be their car this week and breathed heavy through his nose, head down like a bull ready to charge, every muscle tense. Sam’s grip on his biceps was the only thing that felt real. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“What’s up with you, dude?” Sam echoed Dean’s thoughts, his anxious face thrust right up into Dean’s space.
“I’m fine,” Dean muttered, pulling away. “What are you, Castiel? Personal space, man!”
Sam frowned, unconvinced, but Dean was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of creepy-gas-guy, who’d clearly gotten bored waiting for the FBI to come back inside to continue their investigation. The guy looked like he’d just crawled out of a grave; he was pale and wrinkled and covered in dirt. What with that, and the lack of anything to sell inside, Dean couldn’t fathom how he made a living out here.
“The Aged Ones are rising, the sacrifice was incomplete.” Mordecai declaimed in portentous tones. Dean barely managed to supress an unseemly giggle. The strange fog that had clouded his head inside the ramshackle building seemed to have dissipated after a lungful of the gasoline scented air, and he was back in the game.
“Perhaps the situation can be salvaged and the gods appeased. You must be the athlete, and you the scholar,” Mordecai continued in the same fire and brimstone preacher-style, pointing first at Dean, then at Sam “But where is the whore?” He looked around wildly, as if he expected a scantily-clad prostitute to suddenly jump out of the shadows under the trees and start offering lap dances. His pale, bloodshot gaze narrowed as his gaze finally landed on Dean. “Wait, perhaps I was mistaken. Are you the whore?”
“Dude, I’ve got no idea what you are talking about, but liking sex does not make me a hooker!”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said, holding up a hand when Dean opened his mouth again. Dean shut up. Okay, I’ll let the master work, he thought.
“Tell me about these Aged Ones,” Sam said.
Mordecai did. Ad nauseam.
After what felt like hours of pseudo-biblical declaiming, Mordecai, or the Harbinger, as he preferred to be known, finally mentioned something Dean thought might be useful.
“Wait, I thought you said these five sinners were all sacrificed. Someone survived?”
The Harbinger didn’t look too pleased at being interrupted but he nodded.
“The Virgin and the Fool escaped, yes. Which is why the ritual should be re-enacted. If you and the new Scholar were to take the other two back into the woods and find the Ancients, the gods might be satisfied with the sacrifice and spare the World from their anger.”
Mordecai turned on his heel like some sort of corduroy-clad super-soldier turned hobo, and led them through the sorry excuse for a store into an equally dingy back room – to introduce them to the Virgin and the Fool, of course. Who turned out to be two spaced-out, very dirty students called Dana and Marty.
****
Dana and Marty seemed an unlikely couple. That was Dean’s first thought, which he accidentally said out loud, earning him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Sam and a glare from the girl. So apparently they weren’t a couple, just friends who’d survived a monstrous massacre and the end of the world…which, you know, Dean could relate. Okay then. Dean resolved to keep it buttoned, leave the sweet-talking to Sam.
Sam was in full-on sympathetic FBI-mode. Even after all this time, wearing the G-man suit still made Dean feel like a fraud, and he envied how easily Sam slipped on the perfect persona for the situation. Dean grumbled under his breath, for appearances sake, but he was secretly happier than he’d been for a long time. He let Sam take the lead in questioning the pair, only paying partial attention to what was being said. Half of his focus was on his brother, soaking up the new alertness in Sam’s eyes, the way Sam was standing tall again, his face clean-shaven if still too gaunt, the smile on his lips genuine instead of tired and half-hearted.
Cas might have gone all Cuckoo’s Nest with Meg, that bag-of-Dicks Roman and his black slimy friends were still trying to add humanity to their larder, and Crowley was still scheming in the background, but Dean had his Sam back, and that was all that mattered.
Dana and Marty’s words were almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to tell their story. And what a story it was.
It sounded like this so-called Facility had been sitting on another Hell-mouth, but instead of shutting it up tight like Colt had in Wyoming, these stupid humans had been ‘managing’ the situation for years by sacrificing groups of young people to Mordecai’s Ancient Ones to keep them quiet and the gate shut.
“What a bunch of douchebags,” Dean observed, earning a look of disapproval from Sam that he found rather heart-warming in its familiarity.
“So now there are possibly dozens of monsters running loose in the woods?” Sam glanced across at Dean who smiled and nodded to show he was paying attention, because that seemed to be the kind of response Sam was looking for. He was puzzled when all he got in return was a frown.
“We’re going to need help to clean this mess up, Dean. I’ll call Garth,” Sam was digging out his cell phone while he was talking, and the furrows in that mighty brow of his deepened as Sam stared at the small screen. “No reception, dammit.”
Sam gave Dean a look that was clearly supposed to mean something before stepping outside into the forecourt to make his call. Dean wondered for a moment what Sam wanted him to do, then decided it didn’t really matter. Sam clearly had everything under control.
Dean sat down in an armchair that had definitely seen better days, enjoying the warmth of the sun that was filtering through the dirt-streaked glass. The back room of the store didn’t smell of motor oil, or dust, even though there was a thick layer of the latter over most of the shelves. Nope, threaded through the herby smoke of the pot the two students had been smoking, it smelled like that girly shampoo he’d bought Sam once for a joke, jasmine or lily of the valley or some such flowery shit. It was kind of nice, though Dean would never admit it out loud.
Being indoors wasn’t making him anxious or angry this time, rather the opposite. He could hear Dana’s speaking but it sounded muffled, like Dean was sinking into a nice hot bath, and Dean was more than happy to submerge himself. The Virgin, huh? If Dana was a virgin, Dean would let shotgun pick the music for the next year.
He sighed with contentment. This old chair was so comfortable, and Sam was more than competent at these kind of chats with traumatised victims, Dean was sure he’d be okay to just close his eyes and power-nap for a few minutes before tackling whatever hell-spawn these kids had let loose on the world.
Dana had moved round to stand behind him, her small dirty hands kneading his shoulders, and man, that felt nice. She bent forward to whisper something in his ear that sounded like – athlete and whore, I’m happy to accept both in the same pretty package – which made no sense, so he dismissed it as nonsense and let those clever fingers massage all his tension away.
He was vaguely aware of someone shouting, followed by a piercing scream, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to give a fuck until a pair of considerably larger hands – so not Dana, then, huh – gripped him by the arms and shook him. The resulting pain cut through the fog of contentment that had gathered inside his skull.
The elusive scent of flowers had disappeared, and in its place Dean was hit by a stench he recognised all too well. Death, decay, and overlaying everything, the metallic tang of fresh blood.
“Fuck, Dean, are you with me?” Sam sounded close to panic.
Sam’s face was filling his vision, so close Dean could barely manage to focus on anything except the ever-changing colours in Sam’s eyes. Then Sam was dragging him bodily to his feet, and Dean realised that his inability to focus wasn’t solely because Sam had been so close. He lurched inside Sam’s grip, staggering as if the floor was the deck of a ship in a heavy sea.
“Whoa, dude.” Dean said, ridiculously pleased he’d managed to get two words out. Then he spotted the mess on the floor. There was blood everywhere. Marty was sprawled in the middle of the largest puddle, a big-ass wooden stake spitting him right through his stomach. There seemed to be a fair bit all over Dean, too. He wondered if some of it might be his. Guess that explained the smell. Dean wrinkled his nose.
Poor Marty. Survived the Old Ones rising, only to be Buffied by Dean’s pretty, long-haired brother. That was irony, right there. Though Dean had always seen himself as Buffy and Sam more of a Willow, really. Or maybe that librarian guy, what was his name? Giles, that was it.
“Dean, shut the fuck up, will you?” Sam hissed as he half carried, half dragged Dean backwards towards the door. Dean lifted his head with an effort (when did it get so heavy?), looked where Sam was staring, saw what Sam was trying to hold at bay. He started to shake, full body shudders that he couldn’t control. It was a primal reaction that Dean was to weak to fight, even though he knew he was slowing Sam down. What the fuck was wrong with him? What had Dana done to him while Sam was calling for reinforcements?
Dana wasn’t so pretty now. In fact, Dean was sure she wasn’t Dana any more. He somehow found enough brain-power to wonder whether she’d been human at all since she walked out of the top secret facility in the forest. The shape of a woman was still there, but so distorted and contorted it was scarcely recognisable as such. The skin was corpse-white, veined through with a darkness that writhed with a life of its own, and the fathomless black eyes glittered with pure malice. Her mouth opened inhumanly wide, displaying long yellow teeth as long as Dean’s forearm. She hissed and the resulting blast of fetid air made Dean gag.
That was the moment Mordecai chose to regain his courage and choose sides. The Harbinger launched himself from wherever he’d been hiding his ugly face, diving at Sam’s legs, bringing both Winchesters down. Sam’s grip on Dean’s forearms loosened, sending a rush of agony shooting up from Dean’s wrists to his shoulders that paradoxically cleared his head. The long gashes down each arm explained the weakness, and Dean had a moment of clarity. Sam was in better shape than him; therefore Sam should tackle the remaining Ancient One, while Dean…
Dean rolled and flung himself bodily onto the flailing Mordecai, getting an elbow in the chin for his trouble.
“Sam, stake the bitch!” was all he had time for – then he was otherwise occupied with a mass of growling wild-eyed garage attendant, trying not to bleed to death in the process. Dean clung on to consciousness with gritted teeth, even though the room was spinning round him like a centrifuge. His predicament was not helped by the fact that the Harbinger was kneeling on his chest, seemingly intent on using Dean’s head to hammer down some loose nails in the floorboards. In spite of this, part of Dean was still listening, hyper-aware of every sound Sam was making as his little brother fought the Dana-god-creature.
Then Sam cried out in pain, and that was the jolt Dean needed. Adrenaline spiked as his instincts kicked in. A swivel of the hips and Dean had turned the Harbinger upside-down. Dean’s hands were too slippery with his own blood to get a good grip, so he flung his legs up and round, and Mordecai, who had not spent years with his kid brother learning every wrestling trick there was to know, found himself in an inescapable choke hold between Dean’s thighs. It didn’t take long to squeeze the old man into unconsciousness.
Dean rolled onto his hands and knees – ow, that was a fucking painful error – to check on Sam, only to find it was all over. Sam was standing – check; the monster was a gooey smear on the floor – check; Sam was pressing a hand to his side – worrying; but also grinning like he was twelve years old and had just won that soccer trophy all over again.
It was sad those two students never made it out of this mess alive, but Dean wasn’t sure anything had been left of them after the Old gods rose up, so he would count this as a win.
He allowed Sam to help him up and drag him out to the sorry excuse for a car to patch him up, because the kid needed it. Dean could have sorted himself out, of course he could, but it made Sam happy to clean Dean’s arms and put in a few stitches, and Dean so did not pass out while Sam was wrapping his wrists in those clean white bandages. It was purely that he had to close his eyes from the glare of the sun, and he was understandably a bit fatigued from the blood loss, that’s all.
****
“Dean, wake up, man,” Sam gripped Dean’s shoulder, a hard squeeze that pulled him out of the warm fuzzy dream he’d been having. His reluctance to re-join the world must have been all over his face, because Sam was laughing at him, the bitch. “You won’t want to miss this bit, man. Want to do the honours?” Dean refocused and stepping out of the car, looked around.
Sam had driven them a few yards down the highway from the gas station, and was holding out a large box of matches, that big-kid-grin still a mile wide on his face. Fuck, that was a lethal combination. Sam’s smile and a trail of gasoline that snaked its way back to the gas station, offering two of Dean’s favourite things.
“Light it up, Dean.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. Striking the matches with his stiffly bandaged wrists wasn’t easy, but he managed on the third attempt, and the gas took the flame eagerly. They leapt back into the car and Sam gunned the engine. Dean twisted in his seat to get a better view of the explosion, whooping with delight at the massive whump when the whole station went up, momentarily sucking all the oxygen out of the air. The small car was buffeted by the edges of the blast, then settled again as Sam accelerated away. The light of the fire was a miniature sunset behind them as Dean settled back into his seat, watching in the wing mirror. It was hard to tear his gaze away – he loved a good fire.
“Garth’s sending in a clean-up posse of hunters to track down the stray monsters, and while you were passed out I sent the so-called Harbinger packing. So he’s homeless and out of a job, and we’re still alive. I’d say that was a pretty successful day’s work, wouldn’t you?” Sam said, the satisfaction in his voice as pleasurable as the first cup of coffee in the morning.
“Ancient gods strike out, Winchesters win the series,” Dean agreed. Plus he wouldn’t be wearing his G-man suit again for a while. It was ruined – shredded and blood-stained – and thanks to Frank’s laying-low strategy, they had no fake credit cards he could use to buy a new one.
Dean paused a beat.
“Did you say posse?”
Sam turned his head and mock-glared. “Don’t even start,” he said, reaching across to switch on the radio. Dean watched with satisfaction as the corners of Sam’s mouth twitched into a half smile when Glen Frey’s vocals kicked in through the static.
I am an outlaw, I was born an outlaw's son
The highway is my legacy
On the highway I will run
In one hand I've a Bible
In the other I've got a gun
Well, don't you know me
I'm the man who won…
Dean leant his aching head against the cool glass and grinned.
Title: Hark the Herald – he’s no Angel.
Creator:
Recipient:
evelyncarverRating: PG-13
Word count: ~3700
Warnings: none
Author’s note: evelyncarver asked for a crossover with The Cabin in the Woods. The year of the movie’s release actually fit quite nicely with Season 7, so this fic is set at some unspecified time shortly after The Born Again Identity, and immediately after the ending of The Cabin in the Woods. Hopefully you won’t need to have seen the movie to make sense of the story.
Thanks to my beta
sophiap who made this so much better!Summary: Sam is newly restored to himself after Cas took on the Lucifer hallucinations. To celebrate, the Winchesters take on a case in a forest, and uncover a strange story of Ancient Gods and sacrifice.
Hark the Herald – he’s no Angel.
****
“I’m not hiking,” Dean declared. “Or camping.”
He was keen to lay down ground rules from the start, because he knew how these cases so easily spiralled out of control. It was already bad enough. Looking at the maps Dean was wincing in advance at the strain on their latest stolen car’s suspension on all those rough track forest roads. It was the first time in a long time he was actually glad Baby was hidden away in storage.
Sam hand-waved Dean’s concerns, without bothering to offer any reassurance. Did he not care about Dean’s loathing of mosquito-infested wilderness, dammit? Then Sam brought out the puppy eyes at full strength, which just wasn’t fair.
“At least fifteen kids have gone missing in unexplained circumstances over the last fifteen years in this same area, Dean. Each in batches of five, at five-year intervals. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, it’s a case all right. But are you sure you’re up to it? It’s only a few days since we busted you out of the funny farm.”
Sam’s frown was ominous, and Dean winced a little inside. He thought he was doing a good impression of insouciance though (stoner Cas from 2014 would have been so proud). He waited for Sam’s response with arms folded and one eyebrow quirked.
“If you are trying to ask if Cas really succeeded in cleaning Lucifer out of my head, then why don’t you just come right out and say it, Dean? Are you worried I’m going to fall apart the first time we come up against a monster because my mind is so fragile?”
“Well, are you?”
“What, am I going to fall apart or am I fragile?”
“Either! Both!” Dean was gripping both biceps tightly to stop himself from flailing his arms around. He knew it made him look defensive, his crossed arms a barrier between him and his brother, but honestly, better defensive than aggressive with Sam these days. Fuck, how did everything get so tense, so quick?
He brought out the one argument he knew worked every time, low blow through it was. “Come on, Sammy. This shit is important. I need to know you’ve got my back out there.” I need to know you aren’t going to freeze on me and get yourself killed, is what Dean wanted to say, but couldn’t.
Whatever, it got Sam in the car and their show on the road.
Sam was angry and hurt now, but that was okay, it meant he was all fired up and ready to turn that anger on whatever fugly waited for them in the wilds of Minnesota. Dean couldn’t help sneaking sideways glances at Sam in the shotgun seat all the way to Duluth and beyond, as they drove north into the Superior National Park. No sign of twitchiness, no frantic pressing on the scarred hand. Instead Sam alternately grumped about Dean’s choice of music, talked random shit about the local legends and lore of the places they were passing through, or slept with his head resting on the window, mouth open and snoring. It almost felt like everything was back to normal. So yeah, Dean would take it.
In Isabella, a scattering of buildings along State Highway 1 that pretended to be a town, they found a motel called Moose Ridge. Dean got a slap round the back of his head for sniggering at the name.
“Come on, Sam, Moose Ridge? It is a little bit funny…”
“Nothing Crowley says is the remotest bit funny, Dean.”
They showered and Dean reluctantly changed into his FBI identity at Sam’s command, though in Dean’s opinion, Sam’s insistence was entirely down to how much Dean hated wearing a suit. Clearly little bro hadn’t forgiven Dean for implying he was fragile.
Suiting up was totally wasted anyhow, as first they could hardly find a single inhabitant in Isabella, and second, those few hardy souls they did manage to nail down couldn’t tell them anything about the missing students. There were no legends, no clues to follow, there wasn’t even any gossip to be had.
“Man, this place is deader than a Romero flick,” Dean grumbled, loosening his tie. Sam helpfully tightened it and put it straight again without even breaking stride. Sometimes Dean hated his little brother’s attention to detail.
It was only when they stopped for gas a few miles past Isabella, carrying on up State Highway 1, they got their first real lead. The gas station looked abandoned, but the pumps were working, starting to hum when Dean yanked the hose out of its bracket. That seemed to activate the attendant too, as if he was wired into the pumps. He appeared from the dark depths of the single story building with an alacrity that was startling for such a big shambling guy.
Dean let Sam strike up a conversation while he wandered inside to inspect the merchandise, such as it was. It didn’t look like the shelves had been stocked since 1978. The single bottle of rot-gut was covered with such a thick layer of dust the label was barely readable, so Dean picked up a six pack of El Sol. Which he nearly dropped when he tuned into the conversation.
Mordecai. The creepy gas station guy’s name was fucking Mordecai. Dean didn’t have good associations for that name, nope. He remembered an axe, kids dying, and then Sam had to drag him outside, get him to calm down.
“There’s no connection, Dean, this is just a crazy guy; he’s not a tulpa, okay?”
Dean leant his butt against the heap of crap that was pretending to be their car this week and breathed heavy through his nose, head down like a bull ready to charge, every muscle tense. Sam’s grip on his biceps was the only thing that felt real. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“What’s up with you, dude?” Sam echoed Dean’s thoughts, his anxious face thrust right up into Dean’s space.
“I’m fine,” Dean muttered, pulling away. “What are you, Castiel? Personal space, man!”
Sam frowned, unconvinced, but Dean was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of creepy-gas-guy, who’d clearly gotten bored waiting for the FBI to come back inside to continue their investigation. The guy looked like he’d just crawled out of a grave; he was pale and wrinkled and covered in dirt. What with that, and the lack of anything to sell inside, Dean couldn’t fathom how he made a living out here.
“The Aged Ones are rising, the sacrifice was incomplete.” Mordecai declaimed in portentous tones. Dean barely managed to supress an unseemly giggle. The strange fog that had clouded his head inside the ramshackle building seemed to have dissipated after a lungful of the gasoline scented air, and he was back in the game.
“Perhaps the situation can be salvaged and the gods appeased. You must be the athlete, and you the scholar,” Mordecai continued in the same fire and brimstone preacher-style, pointing first at Dean, then at Sam “But where is the whore?” He looked around wildly, as if he expected a scantily-clad prostitute to suddenly jump out of the shadows under the trees and start offering lap dances. His pale, bloodshot gaze narrowed as his gaze finally landed on Dean. “Wait, perhaps I was mistaken. Are you the whore?”
“Dude, I’ve got no idea what you are talking about, but liking sex does not make me a hooker!”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said, holding up a hand when Dean opened his mouth again. Dean shut up. Okay, I’ll let the master work, he thought.
“Tell me about these Aged Ones,” Sam said.
Mordecai did. Ad nauseam.
After what felt like hours of pseudo-biblical declaiming, Mordecai, or the Harbinger, as he preferred to be known, finally mentioned something Dean thought might be useful.
“Wait, I thought you said these five sinners were all sacrificed. Someone survived?”
The Harbinger didn’t look too pleased at being interrupted but he nodded.
“The Virgin and the Fool escaped, yes. Which is why the ritual should be re-enacted. If you and the new Scholar were to take the other two back into the woods and find the Ancients, the gods might be satisfied with the sacrifice and spare the World from their anger.”
Mordecai turned on his heel like some sort of corduroy-clad super-soldier turned hobo, and led them through the sorry excuse for a store into an equally dingy back room – to introduce them to the Virgin and the Fool, of course. Who turned out to be two spaced-out, very dirty students called Dana and Marty.
****
Dana and Marty seemed an unlikely couple. That was Dean’s first thought, which he accidentally said out loud, earning him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Sam and a glare from the girl. So apparently they weren’t a couple, just friends who’d survived a monstrous massacre and the end of the world…which, you know, Dean could relate. Okay then. Dean resolved to keep it buttoned, leave the sweet-talking to Sam.
Sam was in full-on sympathetic FBI-mode. Even after all this time, wearing the G-man suit still made Dean feel like a fraud, and he envied how easily Sam slipped on the perfect persona for the situation. Dean grumbled under his breath, for appearances sake, but he was secretly happier than he’d been for a long time. He let Sam take the lead in questioning the pair, only paying partial attention to what was being said. Half of his focus was on his brother, soaking up the new alertness in Sam’s eyes, the way Sam was standing tall again, his face clean-shaven if still too gaunt, the smile on his lips genuine instead of tired and half-hearted.
Cas might have gone all Cuckoo’s Nest with Meg, that bag-of-Dicks Roman and his black slimy friends were still trying to add humanity to their larder, and Crowley was still scheming in the background, but Dean had his Sam back, and that was all that mattered.
Dana and Marty’s words were almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to tell their story. And what a story it was.
It sounded like this so-called Facility had been sitting on another Hell-mouth, but instead of shutting it up tight like Colt had in Wyoming, these stupid humans had been ‘managing’ the situation for years by sacrificing groups of young people to Mordecai’s Ancient Ones to keep them quiet and the gate shut.
“What a bunch of douchebags,” Dean observed, earning a look of disapproval from Sam that he found rather heart-warming in its familiarity.
“So now there are possibly dozens of monsters running loose in the woods?” Sam glanced across at Dean who smiled and nodded to show he was paying attention, because that seemed to be the kind of response Sam was looking for. He was puzzled when all he got in return was a frown.
“We’re going to need help to clean this mess up, Dean. I’ll call Garth,” Sam was digging out his cell phone while he was talking, and the furrows in that mighty brow of his deepened as Sam stared at the small screen. “No reception, dammit.”
Sam gave Dean a look that was clearly supposed to mean something before stepping outside into the forecourt to make his call. Dean wondered for a moment what Sam wanted him to do, then decided it didn’t really matter. Sam clearly had everything under control.
Dean sat down in an armchair that had definitely seen better days, enjoying the warmth of the sun that was filtering through the dirt-streaked glass. The back room of the store didn’t smell of motor oil, or dust, even though there was a thick layer of the latter over most of the shelves. Nope, threaded through the herby smoke of the pot the two students had been smoking, it smelled like that girly shampoo he’d bought Sam once for a joke, jasmine or lily of the valley or some such flowery shit. It was kind of nice, though Dean would never admit it out loud.
Being indoors wasn’t making him anxious or angry this time, rather the opposite. He could hear Dana’s speaking but it sounded muffled, like Dean was sinking into a nice hot bath, and Dean was more than happy to submerge himself. The Virgin, huh? If Dana was a virgin, Dean would let shotgun pick the music for the next year.
He sighed with contentment. This old chair was so comfortable, and Sam was more than competent at these kind of chats with traumatised victims, Dean was sure he’d be okay to just close his eyes and power-nap for a few minutes before tackling whatever hell-spawn these kids had let loose on the world.
Dana had moved round to stand behind him, her small dirty hands kneading his shoulders, and man, that felt nice. She bent forward to whisper something in his ear that sounded like – athlete and whore, I’m happy to accept both in the same pretty package – which made no sense, so he dismissed it as nonsense and let those clever fingers massage all his tension away.
He was vaguely aware of someone shouting, followed by a piercing scream, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to give a fuck until a pair of considerably larger hands – so not Dana, then, huh – gripped him by the arms and shook him. The resulting pain cut through the fog of contentment that had gathered inside his skull.
The elusive scent of flowers had disappeared, and in its place Dean was hit by a stench he recognised all too well. Death, decay, and overlaying everything, the metallic tang of fresh blood.
“Fuck, Dean, are you with me?” Sam sounded close to panic.
Sam’s face was filling his vision, so close Dean could barely manage to focus on anything except the ever-changing colours in Sam’s eyes. Then Sam was dragging him bodily to his feet, and Dean realised that his inability to focus wasn’t solely because Sam had been so close. He lurched inside Sam’s grip, staggering as if the floor was the deck of a ship in a heavy sea.
“Whoa, dude.” Dean said, ridiculously pleased he’d managed to get two words out. Then he spotted the mess on the floor. There was blood everywhere. Marty was sprawled in the middle of the largest puddle, a big-ass wooden stake spitting him right through his stomach. There seemed to be a fair bit all over Dean, too. He wondered if some of it might be his. Guess that explained the smell. Dean wrinkled his nose.
Poor Marty. Survived the Old Ones rising, only to be Buffied by Dean’s pretty, long-haired brother. That was irony, right there. Though Dean had always seen himself as Buffy and Sam more of a Willow, really. Or maybe that librarian guy, what was his name? Giles, that was it.
“Dean, shut the fuck up, will you?” Sam hissed as he half carried, half dragged Dean backwards towards the door. Dean lifted his head with an effort (when did it get so heavy?), looked where Sam was staring, saw what Sam was trying to hold at bay. He started to shake, full body shudders that he couldn’t control. It was a primal reaction that Dean was to weak to fight, even though he knew he was slowing Sam down. What the fuck was wrong with him? What had Dana done to him while Sam was calling for reinforcements?
Dana wasn’t so pretty now. In fact, Dean was sure she wasn’t Dana any more. He somehow found enough brain-power to wonder whether she’d been human at all since she walked out of the top secret facility in the forest. The shape of a woman was still there, but so distorted and contorted it was scarcely recognisable as such. The skin was corpse-white, veined through with a darkness that writhed with a life of its own, and the fathomless black eyes glittered with pure malice. Her mouth opened inhumanly wide, displaying long yellow teeth as long as Dean’s forearm. She hissed and the resulting blast of fetid air made Dean gag.
That was the moment Mordecai chose to regain his courage and choose sides. The Harbinger launched himself from wherever he’d been hiding his ugly face, diving at Sam’s legs, bringing both Winchesters down. Sam’s grip on Dean’s forearms loosened, sending a rush of agony shooting up from Dean’s wrists to his shoulders that paradoxically cleared his head. The long gashes down each arm explained the weakness, and Dean had a moment of clarity. Sam was in better shape than him; therefore Sam should tackle the remaining Ancient One, while Dean…
Dean rolled and flung himself bodily onto the flailing Mordecai, getting an elbow in the chin for his trouble.
“Sam, stake the bitch!” was all he had time for – then he was otherwise occupied with a mass of growling wild-eyed garage attendant, trying not to bleed to death in the process. Dean clung on to consciousness with gritted teeth, even though the room was spinning round him like a centrifuge. His predicament was not helped by the fact that the Harbinger was kneeling on his chest, seemingly intent on using Dean’s head to hammer down some loose nails in the floorboards. In spite of this, part of Dean was still listening, hyper-aware of every sound Sam was making as his little brother fought the Dana-god-creature.
Then Sam cried out in pain, and that was the jolt Dean needed. Adrenaline spiked as his instincts kicked in. A swivel of the hips and Dean had turned the Harbinger upside-down. Dean’s hands were too slippery with his own blood to get a good grip, so he flung his legs up and round, and Mordecai, who had not spent years with his kid brother learning every wrestling trick there was to know, found himself in an inescapable choke hold between Dean’s thighs. It didn’t take long to squeeze the old man into unconsciousness.
Dean rolled onto his hands and knees – ow, that was a fucking painful error – to check on Sam, only to find it was all over. Sam was standing – check; the monster was a gooey smear on the floor – check; Sam was pressing a hand to his side – worrying; but also grinning like he was twelve years old and had just won that soccer trophy all over again.
It was sad those two students never made it out of this mess alive, but Dean wasn’t sure anything had been left of them after the Old gods rose up, so he would count this as a win.
He allowed Sam to help him up and drag him out to the sorry excuse for a car to patch him up, because the kid needed it. Dean could have sorted himself out, of course he could, but it made Sam happy to clean Dean’s arms and put in a few stitches, and Dean so did not pass out while Sam was wrapping his wrists in those clean white bandages. It was purely that he had to close his eyes from the glare of the sun, and he was understandably a bit fatigued from the blood loss, that’s all.
****
“Dean, wake up, man,” Sam gripped Dean’s shoulder, a hard squeeze that pulled him out of the warm fuzzy dream he’d been having. His reluctance to re-join the world must have been all over his face, because Sam was laughing at him, the bitch. “You won’t want to miss this bit, man. Want to do the honours?” Dean refocused and stepping out of the car, looked around.
Sam had driven them a few yards down the highway from the gas station, and was holding out a large box of matches, that big-kid-grin still a mile wide on his face. Fuck, that was a lethal combination. Sam’s smile and a trail of gasoline that snaked its way back to the gas station, offering two of Dean’s favourite things.
“Light it up, Dean.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. Striking the matches with his stiffly bandaged wrists wasn’t easy, but he managed on the third attempt, and the gas took the flame eagerly. They leapt back into the car and Sam gunned the engine. Dean twisted in his seat to get a better view of the explosion, whooping with delight at the massive whump when the whole station went up, momentarily sucking all the oxygen out of the air. The small car was buffeted by the edges of the blast, then settled again as Sam accelerated away. The light of the fire was a miniature sunset behind them as Dean settled back into his seat, watching in the wing mirror. It was hard to tear his gaze away – he loved a good fire.
“Garth’s sending in a clean-up posse of hunters to track down the stray monsters, and while you were passed out I sent the so-called Harbinger packing. So he’s homeless and out of a job, and we’re still alive. I’d say that was a pretty successful day’s work, wouldn’t you?” Sam said, the satisfaction in his voice as pleasurable as the first cup of coffee in the morning.
“Ancient gods strike out, Winchesters win the series,” Dean agreed. Plus he wouldn’t be wearing his G-man suit again for a while. It was ruined – shredded and blood-stained – and thanks to Frank’s laying-low strategy, they had no fake credit cards he could use to buy a new one.
Dean paused a beat.
“Did you say posse?”
Sam turned his head and mock-glared. “Don’t even start,” he said, reaching across to switch on the radio. Dean watched with satisfaction as the corners of Sam’s mouth twitched into a half smile when Glen Frey’s vocals kicked in through the static.
I am an outlaw, I was born an outlaw's son
The highway is my legacy
On the highway I will run
In one hand I've a Bible
In the other I've got a gun
Well, don't you know me
I'm the man who won…
Dean leant his aching head against the cool glass and grinned.