Finding Home (21/21)

[nightspear]

Note:  There is an epilogue following this

Title: Finding Home (Main Post and Chapter List)

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Chapter 20

 

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“He’s not Dad...I think he’s possessed.”

(“Devil’s Trap”)

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Sometime between one blink and the next, Jake Talley’s unseeing eyes disappeared and Sam was standing at the edge of a dark field full of... graves?

A cemetery.

He turned in a slow circle...and saw the Impala. Dad’s truck.

And in front of the truck...

“Dean,” he said, cradling his injured right hand as he started to stagger toward the figure. “DEAN!”

He knew something was wrong as soon as he drew near. Dad was nowhere to be seen, and his normally restless brother was standing too still, too stiff...

Not standing. Held. Unharmed, as far as Sam could see, but pinned against the truck. Just like he’d been pinned against the wall at Stanford like Jess had been like Monica like Mom...

Azazel was here, somewhere. He was doing this.

Dean’s mouth moved, as if he were trying to speak but couldn’t force the sounds past his lips. His wide eyes shifted deliberately to something behind Sam, though, and he whirled. “Dad!”

His father closed his eyes, and when they opened...

Yellow.

“Howdy, Sam,” Azazel said again, and it was John Winchester’s voice that rumbled through.

“Get out of him,” Sam said in a low growl. “Get the fuck out of my father!”

His words caught in his throat as his father—not him, Azazel, not him not him—reached back and pulled out the Colt. “Nah,” Azazel said. “You’re the winning horse, Sammy. In fact, I’ve a proposition for you.”

Sam stared in appalled fascination as his father’s arms moved to caress the Colt and his father’s voice spoke just like always before, even as he registered continually that the cadence of speech was wrong, the way the fingers moved over the gun, the way he was standing...it was all wrong. His father’s face—his father’s skin—but nothing else.

He’d done this before. That shapeshifter, a year and a half ago—a lifetime ago. He’d killed it then, and...

This time, the body was his father’s. But he, Sam, was also stronger now—he could still feel waves of power coursing through him, waiting just below the surface for him to command.

Dean wheezed out behind him, “Sam, don’t, it’s a—”

“Hush,” Azazel said without looking, and Dean gasped and stopped talking, making Sam whip his head back to his brother to see him struggling for air against an invisible pressure.

“What do you want?” Sam asked for the second time, but the threat of Dean’s being crushed against the truck erased the defiant tone from the question. Azazel nodded smugly, a smile breaking over John’s face.

“Nothing big,” he said, and Sam couldn’t hold back a skeptical snort. Azazel only grinned wider. “Here,” he offered, holding out the Colt. “I’ll even give you this.”

What the...?

Sam looked suspiciously from the revolver up to the man holding it. “What is this?”

“It’s a revolver,” the demon dead-panned. “In fact, they say that it can kill anything. Oh, come on, don’t give me that face. Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this, ah...brotherly banter we’ve got going.”

Anger flared, and then the Colt was in his hand. Dean made a choking noise behind him, but Azazel’s eyes were bright with something like hunger. “You’re really getting the feel for that, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t until then that he thought about how he’d grabbed the gun when he was nowhere within reach of his father’s body. Azazel knew perfectly well what had pushed him into developing that particular skill.

Doesn’t matter. I can kill him now. End it.

Sam raised the Colt in his left hand and pulled back the hammer. “Let my brother go.”

His father’s lips were still twisted in that grin. “Or what?” Azazel taunted. “You’ll shoot your daddy?”

Sam held his ground, not lowering the gun but at a loss for what to do.

The demon looked past Sam.“You think he’ll do it, Dean?”

At that, Dean managed to force out, “Sam...don’t...Dad...”

“Aw, big brother. Sometimes, someone’s just gotta take one for the team. Sam here knows how to kill—he’s damn good at it, too.” Sam’s breaths quickened. “You see that red on his hands? S’not his. The knife, right between Jake’s ribs...it was like art, really. He’s gonna be a good general for my people, aren’t you, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t dare turn away from the demon—he knew he’d crumble if he saw what must be written on Dean’s face now. He clenched his right hand over the split palm that was still oozing blood. “Why...” His voice cracked and he tried again. “Why did you give me the gun?”

Azazel walked toward him, his steps easy and completely unaffected by the Colt still pointed at his heart. He reached out a finger and tapped the barrel, pushing it downward. “It was my inspiration that taught your race to make these, you know. And, boy, has this one got its purpose.”

“Get to the point,” Sam whispered, his father’s face right in front of his now.

Azazel raised John’s arms placatingly, still wearing the mocking smirk. “I knew you’d come around eventually. I need you to walk into that cemetery there and find the crypt at the center. Don’t worry; you can’t miss it.”

“What, and that’s it?”

“Almost. There’s a hole in the stone, just the right size for the barrel of a certain revolver. I don’t need to spell it out for you, do I?”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” The answer hit him as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Because you’re a demon. And demons can’t get in.” He should have realized why they were standing outside the cemetery, never laying a foot inside it. He hadn’t finished his research before landing in Cold Oak, but he’d had time to see the Devil’s Trap laid out by railway lines.

“Full-blooded demons can’t get in,” Azazel corrected him.“But what I need you to do—I’m afraid full-blooded humans can’t do it, either, or I’d have had your brother here do it for me.”

“Liar,” Sam spat.

“Why would I lie when the truth is so much more of a kick in the balls? Come on; you’re wasting time. It’s easy as pie. No big deal.”

Yeah, right. “How stupid do I look?” he said. “What’ll it do?”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

Sam huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Azazel’s eyes darkened, and he called, “Dean? You think I’m kidding?”

Sam turned to his brother just as the fabric of Dean’s shirt was sliced open at the stomach.

“I can go further,” Azazel said casually, and a shudder racked Dean’s body as a thin, shallow line of blood appeared on the skin.

“Wait, stop! Stop!” Sam said, dropping his gun hand completely now and holding his blood-soaked hands out in entreaty. “No, stop. I’ll...” He took a glance into the cemetery, where he could make out the large, stone shape.

God, what was he doing?

You think Dean would want this? You think he and Dad wouldn’t rather die than help the demon?

Azazel’s mouth pressed into a hard line. A moan ripped itself from Dean’s throat as fresh blood welled, and then Sam didn’t care what the other two men would think of this.

“Okay! I’ll do it,” he said quickly. “Just stop...I’ll do it.”

The yellow eyes flashed.“That’s my boy, Sammy. Remember, no cute tricks, now.”

“Sam...don’t do it...”

Wrenching his gaze away from Dean, Sam strode quickly into the cemetery, feeling his body tingle briefly as he crossed the threshold, before moving on until he could no longer hear Dean’s voice calling him. He didn’t look back, afraid of what he’d see.

The crypt would have been hard to miss, even if he hadn’t been looking for it. The pattern cut into it wasn’t completely familiar to him, but the significance of the pentagram, with two points upward, wasn’t lost on him. A round hole was at the center of the engraving. He still didn’t know what this would do, but it wouldn’t be anything good.

I can’t do this.

He chanced another look back.

I can’t not.

Confiteor, Dean. Mea culpa.

Please forgive me.

In one smooth motion, he raised the Colt as if to fire and jammed it into the hole.

It fit (like a key into a lock), and, as the engraving began to rotate (like a lock turning), Sam realized.

It was a door—a gate.

Then a tremor rippled outward from the crypt—the gate—and knocked him away.

What had he done?

He knew the Trap had been broken when he turned to see Azazel standing there, John Winchester’s strong arm securing Dean in a chokehold. “Nice work.” He threw Dean to the ground, and he lay coughing lightly, an arm clutched around the bloodstain at his abdomen.

“Dean?” Sam asked. His brother raised his head, but his eyes were bleak.

“Sam,” Dean rasped out. “That’s a Devil’s Gate.”

Sam met Azazel’s gleaming eyes for a second before turning to pull the Colt back out. Before he could reach it, though, he was spun around and propelled backward the last few feet until he slammed against the Gate, the Colt barely a foot from him but his hands held helplessly at his sides.

“You can’t stop it now. You didn’t think I’d...”

But Sam wasn’t listening. Pooling his fear and panic and fury, he pictured the gun in his brother’s hands, and then it was flying through the air. They’d played catch with harder objects than this, and, sure enough, Dean’s hand rose to snatch the revolver from the air.

Dean rose haltingly to his feet, one hand around his bloody abdomen and the other holding the Colt, aimed at the demon.

As unperturbed as ever, Azazel laughed. “Go ahead. Shoot. Quick, now, the doors are going to open any second. Your daddy’s in here”—he tapped a finger to his temple—“and he’s screaming for you to do it. Come on, Dean. Pull the trigger.”

Dean ground out, “You son of a bitch.”

Amused, the demon said, “You really are a lot like your brother. Same style of repartee—he must have learned it from you. But now, can you learn something from him? Kill a man for the cause? He’s begging you in here, kid.”

Sam could see Dean’s arms shaking and knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t shoot.

Azazel knew it, too. “You can’t do it, can you. Because you need Daddy-dear, and little Sammy. You need them the way they’ve never really needed you.”

“Dean,” Sam whispered, then yelled, louder, “Dean, don’t listen to him! He’s lying! I need--”

“You can’t kill me. Because if you kill me, you kill Daddy, and you couldn’t bear that, could you?”

Sam saw it the instant Dean’s resolve firmed. “No,” Dean said simply, and he aimed the Colt downward and fired into John’s leg.

With a surprised cry, John fell to the ground and Sam felt the pressure against himself release.

Falling to the ground, Sam ran to his brother, who’d dropped to his knees. “Dean! Dean...hold your arm over this, we have to stop the bleeding...It’s not deep, I’ll stitch you up when we get...”

Just then, there was a creaking behind him.

The Gate opened, and then they were both bowled over by a cloud of black smoke.

“Sam! Where’s Dad?” Dean was yelling. “Go check on him!”

“Son...” Both of their heads turned at the call. Wind whipped around them, and misty, shadowing, smoky forms were beginning to rush faster from the Gate. John had lifted himself on one elbow, his eyes their normal, dark brown and his expression broken. “It’s still inside me, I can feel it!” their father screamed. “You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, Dean!”

“No...” Dean whispered. “No, Dad, I can’t...I can’t kill you.”

“Dean...” John turned to Sam. “Sammy, then, I’m begging you...I can’t hold onto it much longer...Son...wait, wait, I know another way to get rid of it, but I need...”

Sam gasped as pain spiked briefly through his head, and he felt himself tumbling into his father’s thoughts, surrounded pain and fear and anguish. And then...an image of Dean’s gun. What...?

“Sam, please, you’ve gotta hurry! It’s by the truck, I need...”

Not questioning for once, Sam obeyed and focused on the thought of Dean’s Berretta lying discarded on the ground by the truck.

“Dad, please...” Dean moaned, the Colt falling from his hands. “Dad, I need you...”

Sam heaved harder and the pistol came with blurring speed, coming to rest just beyond reach. With a pained grunt, desperation in his eyes, John dragged himself the few inches needed to grab the gun.

John turned back to them and flicked the safety off the gun. “You kill it, boys. You kill it.”

Then their father turned the gun into his chest and pulled the trigger.

“NO!” Sam screamed, hearing his brother echo him as they lunged together toward John Winchester’s dying form. Wordless howling filled his ears, and he wasn’t sure whether the sound was coming from him or Dean or the wind--or the amassing demons swooping out.

Just as they reached their father, the eyes snapped back open, and yellow stared back at them.

“Ow,” Azazel said, all traces of amusement gone. “You idiot Winchesters. You think a gun like that can hurt me? Only your daddy’s dying. He’ll never survive a wound like that.”

Realization dawned in all of them at once.

Sam reached out a hand and pulled at the Colt. Just as it slapped into his palm, Azazel snarled wordlessly, and he was lifted and thrown aside to land on his back.

No, kill it, have to kill it now now now now...

Then Dean’s fist was in his shirt, dragging him upright, and his brother’s warmth was behind him, steady arms supporting him as he aimed. Black smoke was starting to drift out of John’s mouth.

Sam fired.

The bullet struck home, as if following the other bullet into their father’s heart. The body jerked grotesquely, flashing as if being shocked from within.

Their father’s eyes stared at them for a second and blinked once before he dropped dead (dead, dead) to the ground.

Sam couldn’t rip his gaze away until he felt Dean pulling roughly at his arm.

“Sam! The Devil’s Gate! We have to close it!”

No time. Don’t think. Act. Now.

Dropping the Colt, Sam shook himself and ran after his brother, nearly blinded by the shadowy cloud of demons swarming out. Each brother made for one door of the Gate, pushing and pushing ineffectually against unyielding resistance...

Finally, Sam felt his door begin to give and he shoved harder, hearing his brother groan as he did the same.

And then the doors to Hell were closed, and they collapsed together at the base of the Gate, watching the storm of demons spread and disappear into the distance.

They leaned against the stone and against each other, panting for breath. Neither looked up or toward their father, each staring into his hands.

Though Sam’s were stained with drying, cracking blood while Dean’s were almost clean, Sam knew from the way Dean’s breath hitched that they were both seeing the same thing.

“It’s dead,” he heard himself say. “We did it.”

Next to him, Dean bowed his head. “It’s over,” he said, but it wasn’t in agreement, and hearing the desolation in his voice, all Sam could feel was despair.

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 Epilogue