amberdreams | 50 States, Colorado - Wanted (Part 2) (Reply)

Wanted

Part 2

Sam moaned faintly as he opened his eyes, head and wrist throbbing in painful harmony. It took him a few moments to corral his scattered thoughts, and another few to realise that some of the pain in his head was being caused by the reverberation of gunfire that was rattling his eardrums. That was enough to get the adrenaline flowing again, and Sam’s addled brains were not too scrambled for him to take in the scene unfolding before him. He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly, analysing the situation even as he moved.

Victor, frozen, lowered rifle in hand. Dean wrapped in the black furry arms of the bear, straining against its embrace. The bear was growling; its slaver dipping onto Dean’s shoulder, sharp yellow incisors frighteningly close to his brother’s exposed neck. Dean’s eyes widened as they met Sam’s gaze.

“Sam! It’s a demon!” Dean grated out, then gasped and moaned as the creature tightened its grip on him. It was clear to Sam his brother was struggling to prevent the bear crushing his ribs, especially with his arms already pulled tight together by the metal cuffs.

Fuck. A demon meant they needed the Paterson Colt, and by some stroke of good luck, its box was just there in front of him, where it had spilled from Sam’s saddle-bags when the bear had attacked him. Fortune was favouring the Winchesters for a change it seemed, but Sam was not going to question any advantage given to him when otherwise the odds seemed stacked in the bear’s – no, demon’s – favour.

He dove for the box, managed to get the gun out then fumbled in utter frustration to load it up. The cuffs weren’t the problem, it was his left wrist. Sam thought it might be broken, but the extent of the injury was unimportant set against the fact that it was preventing him from using the only weapon they had to hand that could kill a demon. Goddam Ruby for waltzing off with that clever knife of hers. And goddam the Paterson for being such a fucking fiddly son of a bitch to load.

The demon was talking, and that might give them some leeway, as these sons of bitches sure loved the sound of their own voices, but Sam knew he couldn’t afford to waste time. He was running out of options. He carefully set the Colt down on the ground.

Sam rose to his feet, trying to catch Dean’s eye. He just hoped his brother would understand what he was doing, and why. He winced at the drag on his injured wrist as he raised his arms, cuffed hands outstretched in front of him, and closed his eyes. His brow furrowed in concentration, he began to call on all his reserves of dark coiled power, just as Ruby had started to teach him. Inside his self-imposed darkness, he could feel the electrifying tingle as his power latched onto the demon’s essence and started to tug at its edges. Then he began to recite the exorcism.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus

omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio…,”

Dean felt the bear’s arms tighten around his upper body until he could have sworn he heard his ribs creaking under the strain. He could feel its rancid breath moist on his cheek, and its saliva was hot and smelled foul where it was running down inside his collar. He struggled to draw precious air into his lungs, but his relief was like the smoothest whiskey when he saw Sam stagger to his feet. Sam was not injured too badly, and that was good. But then his brother placed the Colt on the ground behind him, and Sam was stepping forward, staring at Dean with an intense look Dean was having trouble interpreting. His little brother was stretching out his hands and the expression that came over his face at that moment Dean recognised instantly, and felt his stomach lurch.

Sam was going to try and exorcise this demon with his mind.

“Sam, no…” Dean gasped, then gasped again as the bear roared and tightened its grip even further. This time there was no mistaking the sound as one or more of his ribs cracked under the strain. Bright spots danced in his vision, as a wave of pain washed over him and he struggled to remain conscious. In the seconds that it took him to regain his senses, he finally realised what Sam had been trying to tell him, and without a second thought, he yelled to the bemused Henricksen, who was raising his rifle to make another futile attempt at shooting the demon-possessed animal.

“No, Victor! Use the Colt!”

Dean hoped Sam’s distraction technique was working, as the Pinkerton Agent (who was, thank Christ, quick on the uptake) dropped his Enfield and swiftly rolled behind Sam to pick up the old Paterson Colt.

Then Dean had no time to wonder about anything any more, as the bear was roaring at Sam, and Dean’s ears were vibrating from the close up decibel assault while his torso groaned with agony as the ends of the broken bones grated together in his chest.

“Boy king, you’d better stop that or I’ll stick your pretty brother with these sharp claws of mine…”

The demon seemed to be getting better control of the poor bear’s abused vocal chords, as its words were becoming more comprehensible.

Sam’s look of concentration didn’t waver, or his recitation of the Rituale Romanum falter, but his eyes opened wide at the threat. Dean wasn’t sure if the blackness wavering in front of his face was demon-smoke or the edge of his own unconsciousness beckoning, but he sincerely hoped it was the latter. He couldn’t bear to watch Sam lose himself again.

“et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te.
Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,
eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare…”

Dean thought he could see Victor fiddling with the Paterson behind Sam, but he couldn’t be sure. He was a little distracted by the prick of a claw under his chin, and the feel of something sharp slicing through the layers of shirts and undershirts to scrape across his stomach.

“You’d better not hurt my brother, you son of a bitch!” Sam’s voice was quiet and deadly, but the bear-demon did not seem to feel threatened. After all, it had managed to get the younger Winchester to interrupt his exorcism.

“Or what, eh Sam? You’ll suck me out of here and throw me back into Hell?” The bear made an odd snuffling sound that Dean thought was supposed to be laughter. “You haven’t got the juice.”

Sam stepped closer, keeping his hands high. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” He said. “Do you want to take that chance?”

Dean choked off a cry of pain as the bear slid a claw deep into his abdomen, tried not to make his involuntary flinch too obvious in case it drew Sam in too close.

“Do you want to take any more chances with your worthless brother’s life, Sammy?”

Dean could feel his blood warm and wet as it trickled from the wound, snaking its way down the waistband of his pants. He couldn’t help giving a faint moan as the bear slid a second claw in next to the first. God, but Henricksen better get a move on or this creature would have him eviscerated before too long. Wearing his own entrails as garters was not a good look.

Right on cue, Henricksen rose to his feet, taking aim with the colt over Sam’s broad shoulder. Dean closed his eyes. Now they would see how well Pinkerton trained his agents.

****

Fortunately for Dean, Victor’s aim was faultless. Sam watched the milky white film over the bear’s eyes vanish as the bullet smashed into the animal’s big heavy skull. The demon roared as the colt worked its magic, fiery light crackling through the bear’s body like molten lava, killing demon and bear in one fell swoop.

The bear fell backwards with a mighty crash (another stroke of luck as its weight would probably have crushed Dean) and his brother staggered forwards, released from the death grip at last. Sam thought for one moment that Dean was all right, when his brother stood there wavering slightly, grinning at a stunned Victor.

“Great shot, Henricksen!” He said. Then his legs buckled underneath him and he slumped down onto his knees, both hands clasping his stomach. When he raised his head his face was white, and his smile was more a grimace. Blood was staining his teeth.

Sam leaped forward just in time to catch Dean awkwardly as his brother’s eyes rolled back and he slid sideways to the ground. Resting Dean against his knee, Sam yelled urgently at Henricksen.

“For God’s sake, man. Uncuff us both, now!”

To give him his due, Henricksen collected himself quickly. He ran for his saddlebags and dug out a flask of whiskey as well as the keys. Once Sam’s hands were free, he and Victor carefully carried Dean to a relatively flat, clear piece of ground and laid him out. Sam reluctantly accepted the Pinkerton man’s assistance as his left wrist was virtually useless.

Together they gently stripped off the unconscious man’s jacket and shirt, rolling up the jacket to use as a makeshift pillow. Sam couldn’t help letting out a gasp as he saw the mess of blood soaking Dean’s undergarments, and the single jagged claw still stuck in Dean’s abdomen, where it had ripped off as the bear had fallen.

“Shit.”

“Is that…?” Victor’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of the claw. Sam used Victor’s knife to cut away the cloth, exposing Dean’s chest and stomach, and the full extent of the damage.

“It’s a claw, yeah.”

Sam prodded carefully around the entry wound, worried by the dark discolouration that was already evident spreading across Dean’s stomach, the dirty yellow claw its epicentre. The risk of infection would have been bad enough had the bear just been a bear, but Sam was already concerned that something demonic was at work on his brother’s body.

Victor was wincing at the amount of bruising that was mottling Dean’s torso from collar bones to belly button, and Sam thought that there were probably a couple of broken ribs to contend with too, but his immediate task was to deal with the claw.

Dean moaned softly then opened his eyes.

“What’s the damage?” He grated out, trying to raise his head to see. Sam didn’t need to push his stubborn brother back down - the pain did that for him.

“Dean, just try and keep still, will ya?”

If possible Dean’s face was even whiter than before, every freckle standing out stark in the dusky light.

“Yeah, alright, don’ fuss Samantha,” Dean mumbled as he let his head fall back onto the jacket.

“Victor, I need holy water as well as whiskey. In my saddle bag, there’s a water skin embossed with a pentagram, could you bring it for me?”

Sam was grateful for the Pinkerton agent’s quiet efficiency and ability to take orders as Victor just unquestioningly followed the young outlaw’s instructions. They got a fire going as it was clear they had to make camp now, there was no way they could travel any further or try and find help with Dean in this condition. It was clear the older Winchester would die if they tried to move him.

Victor boiled water and found clean cloths to wash away the blood, while Sam got ready to pull out the claw.

“Victor, I need you to hold Dean’s shoulders, keep him still while I do this.”

“Sammy,” Dean made the beginning of a protest but Sam cut him short.

“No, Dean, this is gonna hurt like hell,” Sam admonished.

Victor didn’t understand why Dean seemed to find that statement funny, and Sam just shot his brother an exasperated look when Dean gave a snort of laughter closely followed by a choked off moan of pain.

“Mmm guess I might have to h..h..hold judgment on that one, eh, Sammy?” Dean gasped.

Henricksen took up his position kneeling by Dean’s head, both hands placed on the wounded man’s shoulders. In another life, the Pinkerton man had dealt with injured men before, more times than he wanted to remember, and this scene was bringing back many uncomfortable memories of that war, but he gritted his teeth and braced himself as Sam took hold of the broken claw and with one swift movement, yanked it out. The blood that followed in the path of the claw flowed sluggish, and so dark it was almost black.

Dean tensed and grunted with pain, his breath coming in harsh pants, and Victor thought well, that wasn’t too bad. Until Sam began to irrigate the open wounds with the holy water.

Henricksen couldn’t believe his eyes as steam began to rise up from Dean’s chest and stomach, wherever the water touched any of the wounds left by the demon-bear. The outlaw’s back arched off the ground tense as a bow, and Victor had to fight hard, using all his weight to hold the man down as Dean screamed and screamed in agony. Sam was almost as pale as his injured brother but stayed steady, carefully flooding every gash, every tear in the elder Winchester’s skin with the holy water, until thankfully Dean lost consciousness and collapsed back to the ground, head lolling against Victor’s knee.

Henricksen found his hands were shaking as he tried to relax his bruising grip on Dean’s shoulders.

“Jesus.” He said, lost for words. Sam just nodded his agreement, clearly exhausted. Both of them sat back and looked at Dean’s unconscious form. His breathing was still shallow and too fast, and his cheeks were beginning to take on a hectic flush.

Sam shook his head as if he was struggling to stay awake, so Victor helped the younger man finish dressing the wounds that were still smouldering slightly from the effect of the holy water. Two of the incisions were deep, and the blood that kept welling up could not be stopped, and was still too dark to be natural.

“What are you going to do about that?” Victor asked, feeling at a loss amidst all this strangeness.

“I don’t know. If the holy water hasn’t helped, I really don’t know what else to do.” Sam tied off the bandage tight round Dean’s stomach, staring despairingly as he saw it was already stained with two small patches of dark blood where the claws had pierced his brother.

“Let me see to your wrist, Sam.” Victor offered, and after a short argument, Sam eventually acquiesced. Victor was more comfortable dealing with this injury, and had soon competently set and strapped the break, and cleaned up the gash in the boy’s head. Both aware, as they talked, of the still figure stretched out beside the fire.

Night had fallen whilst they had worked, and the temperature had started to drop.

“So. Demons.” Victor said, and Sam nodded wearily.

“Yeah. And ghosts, shape shifters, vampires…all real.”

“I never knew.”

“I know, Henricksen, but now you do. What’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” Henricksen stared into the flames. “I really don’t know.”

Sam’s head was drooping, he was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open, what with the effects of the head wound, his other injuries and the stress of the day. Henricksen eventually persuaded him to get out his bed-roll, promising that he’d keep watch over them both, and Sam reluctantly agreed.

The Pinkerton agent sat in the darkness, feeding the fire listening to the sounds of the night as the stars came out, one by one. Thinking about how his world had just been turned upside-down.

****

Part 3 this way