Chapter Text
“When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.” - Antisthenes
Monday, May 2 nd , 4:45am:
“Tick tock, tick tock,” Azazel tutted, staring at the watch around his wrist. “Literally two hours, ma boy. I'm surprised you haven't died of blood loss yet.” He peered further down from the watch, eyeing the pool of blood steadily growing in size around Dean's feet, already seeping into the material of his current body's meat-suit. It wasn't the same as last time – no charming smile or twinkly eyes to get the ladies to open up their doors, unfortunately – but a normal, middle aged looking fella, one who might even pass off as a hunter. Daniel Elkins sure had been fooled.
Even if, in the end, Azazel still didn't have what he'd been searching for. Either of the things he'd been searching for.
“Leave him alone, you bastard! Dean!”
Sighing, Azazel turned round to face Daddy Winchester, rolling his eyes in exasperation at all the threats still being hurled his way. John didn't have the Colt, Azazel didn't have the Colt, then who did? He'd been so sure Elkins had had it, which was why he'd clued those accursed vampires to his location, letting them have their fun with him. But the Colt hadn't been anywhere in that ramshackle hut some called a house. And really, considering Elkin's had been John's only clue too, it was real frustrating to not have it in his hands.
Oh well, at least he'd get Sammy.
As soon as he could get Dean here to speak, anyway.
“Maybe I should just possess you and get it over with.” He mused, tapping at his chin in thought. “I did say I had all the time in the world, not to mention that your daddy didn't, but I haven't really touched John other than to shut him up now and then, have I?”
“You bastard- Agh!”
“See?” Azazel questioned, holding his hand still while it was angled in John's direction. “Like that. How about this, boy,” John gurgled in the background, desperately searching for air as Azazel squeezed his hand and systematically closed the older hunter's windpipe. “How long do you think Johnny here can hold his breath? One minute? One minute and a half?”
Dean struggled to raise his head, blood loss making him weak and exhausted, blood covered lips moving to form words with no sound. Azazel leaned in close, crowding up into Dean's space, not missing the flicker of disgust in the jade eyes, and dropped his face to Dean's sagging form, pressing his ear in close. “What did you say?” He purred, anticipation thrumming in his meat-suit’s veins. “Are you going to let me strangle your papa to death? Kill him like I killed your mommy?”
Dean didn't respond immediately – how could he? Waste of skin was barely hanging on to life by a thread – but after before a minute could be up and John's noises had progressively gotten more urgent before dying down, Dean moved his head in the tiniest fraction to signal a nod, and Azazel eased up on the pressure on John's windpipe, ignoring the immediate gasps of air the man busied himself with.
“Excellent choice there, Deano. Promise you won't regret it.” He grinned instead, patting Dean on the chest again. “Now, where's your sweet little brother?”
A wheeze, then, “Don't you tell him... Don't- Dean-” And John dissolved into coughs, wheezing in the end.
Azazel just smiled, held up his hand and waited. Dean's head lolled to the side, too heavy for the weakened boy to lift, but those green eyes – brighter now with the skin so pale – glared at Azazel with a glazed and unfocused look, still so passionate despite his impending death. When a few seconds ticked by and Dean had yet to speak, Azazel clucked his tongue and clicked his fingers right in front of Dean's face, bringing the glazed focus back to the present from wherever they'd faded off to. The rotten stench of sulphur grew heavily in the air, tickling Azazel's nose in greeting, just as John's breath hitched in surprise.
Dean's eyes closed and opened, widening as soon as they landed on whatever was behind Azazel's shoulder, the expression in those eyes transforming from determination to grief and despair. “N-No... S'm...”
Curious as to what stupid demon would interrupt him while in the process of something so monumental, Azazel turned around to face the newcomer. What he saw in front of him – no, who he saw in front of him – well, it made all this worth it, because standing in front of him in the middle of the cabin was one Samuel Winchester, and something blue that smelt of half abomination and half demon. With yellow eyes. And blue skin.
Huh. Well will you look at that.
Azazel chuckled, turning around and sweeping his arms out like a kind host. “And what do we have here? Sammy, oh Sammy, how I've been searching for you.” He cooed, curling a finger in Sam's direction. The same finger became an arrow, pointing at the half breed with the wrong allegiance. “And you, my, how you took after your mother.”
The blue thing went pale (pale! Hah!) and took a step backwards, all but hiding behind the surprisingly tall figure of Sam.
“You're not even human, y'know.” Azazel continued on, curious despite himself. He could remember the thing's mother – an abomination, but a clever abomination, with the ability to change herself to look like anyone without the disgusting side effects of being a shapeshifter, – and how he'd been curious about what would happen if you mixed demon with mutant. That had been a bit before the whole plan with infecting normal human kids with his blood, of course, back in his heydays, if you would, but he'd completely forgotten about this thing all but as soon as he'd left its mother.
The thing didn't look like it wanted to reply, which worked just as well for Azazel, since obviously that experiment had gone pathetically wrong, but oh well, Azazel's focus was completely on Sam now. His little protégé that would not be infected by these freaks of nature. Good humour gone from his meat-suit’s face, Azazel smiled cruelly and took a step towards them.
In response, Sam's right hand disappeared into the jacket he was wearing, coming out again with a gun in hand. Azazel had seen a lot of guns in his time, had actually been there to witness when they'd first been made – hell, he'd helped with that little endeavour, actually. One of his best crowning moments that even the Bible got right in the end – but he immediately knew this wasn't a gun he'd seen before, but one he'd only heard of.
John grunted, eyes wide and locked onto the gun, recognising it just like Azazel had done. “T-The Colt.” He wheezed out, windpipe still too injured to speak properly. “Where?”
The infamous gun was shifted until Sam had a stronger grip on it, professionally aiming it right between Azazel's eyes. “Had a vision of Daniel Elkins and vampires.” Sam calmly said, voice low and aimed directly at Azazel. “Had a word with him before he died. Got this in return.”
So that was why those stupid demons hadn't been able to get the Colt after the vampires had done away with him. Azazel quirked an eyebrow, impressed despite himself, and almost purred at the boy on the cusp of being a man standing in front of him so proudly. “My, how you've grown, Sammy boy.” Then he flicked his wrist, and put power behind it to throw the boy and his little demonic halfling friend towards the door, smiling wildly as he did.
But besides the blue thing jerking in his place and disappearing in a plume of foul smelling sulphur, nothing happened. Samuel Winchester continued standing tall with the Colt in his grip – the one gun that could kill him permanently – and Azazel's powers didn't work on him. Sam grinned smugly at him, unaffected by Azazel's decreasing good humour, and cocked the safety off of the gun.
Irritation curled low and hot inside what passed as Azazel's stomach, churning with the prospect of danger the gun represented. But he smiled, never one to count his eggs before they'd hatched, and reached backwards to curl his fingers around Dean's neck, squeezing just a bit to get an audible hitch of breath. Immediately, just as he'd predicted, Sam faltered, gun dropping just an inch lower before snapping back up to aim at Azazel's head – but the damage had already been done.
Azazel could break Dean's neck and get away before Sam even pulled the trigger. And despite the boy's inactivity in the supernatural and hunting world, he knew this too.
“Now, let's stop all this nonsense.” Azazel said, holding his free hand out towards Sam, palm up. “Why don't you just give me that gun and I'll go. Leave your family alone for a few years, come back when you're a bit older.”
Sam frowned, eyes darting between Dean and Azazel, a glint behind his hazel eyes that spoke of a mind working to fix things as best as he could. “Demons lie.” Sam firmly replied, two words to encompass everything.
Azazel grinned, showing off his meat-suit's white teeth – a middle aged dentist with an ex-wife and a dog – and tutted in reproach. “Oh, but Sammy, I haven't lied yet have I? Besides, believe it or not but you Winchester's have grown on me, killing you now would mean the next ten years would be boring.”
Swallowing thickly, the youngest Winchester struggled to decide what to do next.
“What'll it be, Sammy boy?” Azazel pressed, squeezing his fingers round the boy's older brother's throat, hearing Dean's breathing hitch in protest. “You gonna kill me and your big brother here? Or you gonna hand over that gun and save your whole family?”
. . .
Friday, April 30 th , 3:40pm:
“I-I can't believe it.” Jess whispered harshly, fidgeting in her seat as the kitchen staff passed plates of food around. “Monsters. Real. And your family hunts them.”
Sam sat beside her, frowning down at the apple pie placed in front of him for dessert, his mind still stuck on the conversation in the professor's office. He hummed distractedly at her in lieu of a reply, playing around with the pie without eating it. When Jess elbowed him in the ribs, Sam grunted in pain and turned to look at her. “What?”
“Monsters.” She repeated, the one word explaining it all. “None of my fire worked on the demon.”
Sam indulged her with a nod, deciding to partake in the conversation by explaining his theory on why it hadn't. “Probably because demons are from Hell, and Hellfire is a whole different level than normal fire.”
With a blonde strand of her hair wrapped around her index finger, Jess peered up at Sam with narrowed eyes, thought on it, then decided it seemed like a perfect explanation and returned to her own pie. “And you think your brother knows the demon's out there and is going after him?” He nodded, finally taking a bite of the apple pie and almost vomiting it straight out. One of Jess' – Jessica Moore, a teenager just like him with abilities to ignite and control fire, wants to grow up to be a nurse – hands touched his own, her eyes staring at him. Sam could feel blood draining into his cheeks, flushing them red at the attention on him, and it didn't help that he had a crush on her since she'd first arrived. “Is he going to be OK?” She asked, sounding genuinely worried for his brother.
Not knowing the real answer to it, Sam nodded, refusing to entertain the thoughts that maybe Dean wouldn't. “He'll be fine. Dean's the best hunter out there.”
“And you?”
Sam paused, looking her in the eye for something and not finding it. “What do you mean?”
Jess grinned, the worry turning to sly in the blink of an eye. “You're really just gonna sit here in a mansion and do nothing while your brother's out there hunting down the demon that killed your mom?”
He had to give it to her, she was smart – something he already knew – and quick on the draw too. “Nope.” Sam admitted, shyly returning the grin. “I've been doing research on demons anyway, and I think I know a way to help my brother, but it's a bit difficult.”
“Yeah?” Jess replied, beaming in a way that had Sam's stomach doing an awkward flip. She leaned in close so their conversation couldn't be overheard by the other students and teachers milling around the long table, Sam following suit until their heads almost touched. “Come on, spill. At the very least I might be able to burn something for you.”
He laughed despite himself, loosening up with her humour but still keeping his voice low, both of them whispering to each other furiously to be heard over the chatter. “There's a gun out there rumoured to be able to kill anything – including demons. It was made by a guy named Samuel Colt, but nobody knows if it's even real or just a pipe dream. I think it's real though – the amount of recorded details on it support it being legit, and if it is, then it's the only thing in existence able to kill a demon.”
“You have any idea where it might be right now?” Jess hushed back, eyes wide with interest.
Sam shook his head no, lips pulling down into a fierce scowl. Because the truth was, besides knowing of its existence, he had no clue where it might be. He'd spent hours pouring everything he could get his hands on about it, about its possible location, but with the amount of luck he had had he might as well have been searching for Excalibur. At least that would've been a lot easier. Jess patted his hand consolingly, smiling at him with sympathy, but not pity. An ache started at the back of his head, just a small flare of pain that quickly came and went, but Jess saw the brief wince on his face all the same. “You OK?”
“Yeah,” Sam was quick to reassure her, too used to the brief flashes of headaches he was getting lately. “I'm fine--”
--God, his head.
The pain hit him like a freight train, taking him by surprise and pounding in his head. Sam doubled over, a gasp escaping him followed by a groan, hands scrabbling at his head to try and stop it, to try and get rid of whatever it was that hurt. Flashes of images exploded in his mind's eye – a wooden cabin, a highway sign, a middle aged man, a silver gun, the cabin's door opening with a crack, group of people, teeth, blood everywhere – and then the pain disappeared.
Just like that, disappeared.
His hearing came next, Jess' frantic voice in his ear, Doctor Hank sending someone for water, the buzz of other kids whispering to each other. He could smell pie, apple pie, and suddenly remembered he was at lunch, and had just been talking to Jess when his head suddenly-
-a vision. He'd just had a vision. A vision of a man in a cabin getting attacked by a group of people with sharp teeth – supernatural. He hadn't had a vision in ages; not since Dean left, yet something niggled at the back of his mind, something important, something about the gun. Long and silver, it had something engraved on it, but what kind of a gun was it? Sam sat up slowly, waving away everyone's concern, still aching head trying to figure out what the gun he'd seen was. Something coppery and metallic filled his mouth, coming from his upper lip, and he touched it with a finger and looked down to see what it was. Blood. Yeah, he'd forgotten about the nosebleeds – he certainly didn't miss this part about getting visions.
That's when it hit him, just as Nightcrawler – Kurt Wagner – popped in with the water. The gun he'd seen was a Colt Revolver – and the chances of Sam just happening to have a vision of a guy getting ripped to pieces over a gun he had hid (because he had, Sam remembered, he'd seen the man hide it underneath the floorboards), a gun that just happened to have the same name as the legendary Colt, was far too much of a coincidence. Sam grabbed a tissue and held it against his nose, grinning wildly over at a still worried Jess.
“I know where the Colt is.”
. . .
Monday, May 2 nd , 5:57am:
“What'll it be, Sammy boy?” Azazel pressed, squeezing his fingers round the boy's older brother's throat. “You gonna kill me and your big brother here? Or you gonna hand over that gun and save your whole family?”
“And how about you, Johnny boy?” The demon continued, flashing a sharp grin at the suspended John Winchester. “Keeping quiet over there aren't you? Don't you want me dead? Finally end it all and avenge your sweet, sweet, Mary?”
John clenched his fists, struggling to fight against the force still holding him up against the wall, eyes burning fiercely at the yellow eyed demon. His stare darted to his oldest – the one he'd considered a monster for so many years, the one he'd hunted down and chased after with the intent to kill – and all he could see was his little boy with the freckles and big green eyes who grew up too fast and too much for the world. When he turned to look at Sam – Sam, who he'd only last seen when he was fourteen – he saw a tall gangly teen growing into his bones, holding the legendary Colt – the Colt! - that John had been searching for ever since hearing about it – the way John had taught him to, hesitating on pulling the trigger as to not hurt his brother.
Sam's slanted eyes – the eyes he'd gotten from John, the depths he'd gotten from Mary – met John's own, a little boy asking his father what to do swimming inside it. “Dad?”
He didn't doubt the demon, didn't doubt that the yellow eyed bastard could kill his eldest and escape before Sam even pulled the trigger. But this was The Demon here, the one he'd been chasing for the past sixteen years, the one he'd trained his sons (to the best of his ability) to keep them protected from.
“How about we ask Dean?” The demon suggested, pretending to be sympathetic to their plight with furrowed eyebrows. He turned to Dean, jostling the boy by the neck, the glimpse of bruises igniting a fire of loathing in John's stomach. “Say, Dean. What do you think? Wanna die tonight? Should Sam pull the trigger?”
Dean's eyes slithered open, pale green peaking in through the lids, using whatever energy he still had to work his lips. “D-Do it... Sammy.”
As soon as Dean spoke, John wanted to kill himself for even thinking of sacrificing his son. Because this was Dean, his first born, his eldest, his little soldier and confidant and the one person in the world – to this day – he could say he trusted everything with. “God,” he choked out, eyes watering up in guilt. “Don't, Sam. Don't do it.”
Dean's eyes opened up further, a spark lighting up inside them as his face twisted into annoyance. “D-Do it.” He countered, aiming his words to Sam, locking his eyes with his younger brother for emphasis. “Do it.”
The gun wobbled in Sam's grasp, indecision making the young boy glance between his father and brother, searching for something. John tried to get Sam to lower it, to just hand it over – it wasn't worth it, dammit – with more platitudes, with more coaxing to just follow The Demon's order. But Sam took one long hard look at Dean, a conversation passing between them without words just like always, and gripped the Colt harder, face turning to a mask of stone, and aiming it right back at The Demon's face.
The Demon cursed, face twisting in anger before transforming to shock, mouth gaping open to the sky as the body went taut, and John shouted a warning as black smoke billowed out of the possessed man's mouth, pooling around the ceiling before lunging back down towards Dean. Horror gripped John tight, the idea that he might have to kill his son anyway making his blood go cold, but the black smoke bounced off from Dean harmlessly, unable to enter, hesitated for a moment as they – John and Sam stared shock, then dove towards John himself. The black smoke – The Demon – was across the room in seconds, lightning flashing through the dark clouds, when a loud rapport rang out, the sound of a gun going off, and the smoke jerked in the air. John's head swivelled away from what had been an oncoming demonic possession, landing first onto his eldest, seeing Dean still slumped against the wall, then to his youngest where Sam had dropped the Colt and had his hand stretched out, fingers curling into a fist with deep concentration etched onto his face.
The black smoke – The Demon – crackled with lights, glowing in pulses, not like the normal method of light shows going on in it; and John stared as the pulses, the lights, became more frequent, grew stronger in strength until the smoke – The Demon – began disintegrating into thin air, and Sam gasped in what must have been pain from whatever it was he was doing, and with a final crackle, a final glowing throb, the smoke just cleared.
Immediately, whatever had been holding him up disappeared, taking John by surprise and dropping him to the floor. Across from him, Dean quietly slumped to the ground, the proverbial puppet's strings cut off, and the black smoke – The Demon – was gone, nowhere in sight, gone. John stared at the space where it'd been, where the monster he'd been hunting for years had been, then speechlessly turned to stare at his panting youngest.
Across the cabin, at the opposite wall, Dean raised a hand before dropping it to the floor, breaking the silence with a croaked, “Happy Seventeen, Sammy.”
And the quiet broke.
“Dean!”
“Son!”
The two staggered towards Dean, dropping beside him and carefully rolling him over to his back. Their hands came away drenched with blood, the material at their knees suffering from the same fate, and Dean only responded to the movement with a low groan of pain.
John cursed. “Shit. This is bad.”
“I-I should get Kurt.” Sam stammered, holding Dean's head back to free his airway.
John glanced up, taking in Sam's pale face and wide frightened eyes, and found it wasn't too hard to smile at his youngest. “You've grown, Sammy.”
Sam flushed beet red, carefully putting Dean's head down on the floor, before wrapping his arms around his father's neck in a tight squeeze. “It's good to see you too, Dad.” Then he pushed up to his feet and with a furtive glance to Dean's supine form ran to the door.
Finding himself calmed by the hug, John only spared a glance to Sam's retreating back and wondered for a moment who Kurt was – whether or not it had been the blue thing that had brought his son here – before focusing his complete attention on Dean. He patted his son down carefully, removing the outer layer of his flannel, getting it out of the way and refusing to think about the amount of blood they were both surrounded in. Sam came running back in, helping John to prop Dean up and get a hold under his armpits, hauling him up to his feet. Between the both of them, they were able to get Dean out of the cabin just in time to hear the roar of the wind picking up. If you kept tracking through the forest, as they did, you'd come out into a clearing with a large highway never used and too obscure for anybody who wasn't local.
The blue thing John still didn't know a thing about was standing on the highway, waving at them to come closer. John frowned, looking around the empty area, and turned to Sam with a confused look. Sam just grinned, and nodded his head towards the sky.
Where a large jet suddenly appeared in view.
John gaped at the black jet, watching as it proceeded to expertly land on the stretch of highway. A groan came from beside him, Dean's eyes opening just a slither to look at the plane before closing shut again. “'m not goin' in tha' thin'.” Dean slurred, head lolling down until his chin rested against his chest.
Heart breaking and mending, John gave a watery grin and pressed his chapped lips to his son's hair. “Still afraid of planes, son?”
Dean didn't reply, but John's attention was caught by the jet's cargo bay door opening up and a group of people coming out. The first one to spot them was a muscled man with wild hair, who took one look at them and vehemently swore. The blue thing was rambling without breathing about what had just happened, sounding for all it was worth like he was freaking out about what The Demon had said about it, but shut his mouth when an old man in a wheelchair wheeled down the ramp and towards them urgently.
“Come, quickly! Bring Dean in!”
Of course John hesitated, gripping his first born tightly to him, never one to just rely on other people. But Sam stared up at him imploringly, holding Dean up from the other side, and John suddenly realised with a start what he'd witnessed in the cabin was Sam using his powers. The powers Dean had said were his, the powers John had mistaken for supernatural and had him losing both his sons. Dimly, he wondered if it had anything to do with the rumours of mutants he'd been hearing of lately, whether it had anything to do with the tales hunter's spread through the grapevine of coming across frightened people who didn't react to iron, salt, or holy water but still had powers.
Sam stared at him, eyes dark but wide. “Trust me, dad.”
And after a heavy moment, John nodded, counting his blessings that at least Dean seemed to have finally passed out.
. . .
Dean never woke up after that.
With multiple internal bleeding, wounds scattered across his body from what must've been a previous hunt, Dean had been in critical condition and refused to wake up. They'd all been forced to take him to a hospital, with the professor footing the bill before John could even think to, and had only been able to move him to the Mansion's clinic a week ago. The doctor's spoke with too much technicalities and kept their faces carefully blank. It was Beast – Doctor Hank – that bluntly told them Dean was in a coma and had very little chance of coming out.
“But we will try everything in our nature to help, Mr. Winchester.” Sam tuned in to hear Dr. Hank tell a blank faced John. “The professor has an idea that may possibly work.”
Sam blinked slowly, the words taking a moment to register before making sense. Both he and John turned to face the professor, watching him wheel himself into the clinic where John and Sam had refused to leave Dean since they'd brought him here. Jean stood by the professor's side, both of them with the same grimace on their faces as they came closer towards the three Winchesters, Dean lying unconscious on the bed with only life support keeping him alive, and stopped in front of them.
“Mr. Winchester,” the professor smoothly began, aiming his words at John. “As I've already introduced myself, allow me to tell you what my mutation is. I am telepathic – a mind reader, if you will – and of all the people I've come across, your son – Dean – seems to have something that can block me. However, we think that there might be a chance Samuel may be able to slip through it.”
John's fingers clenched around the blanket covering Dean from the waist down, playing with a loose thread. “How is it Dean can block you?”
The professor grimaced, long fingers steeping together as he answered. “I do not know, but I believe Dean may also be a mutant. The x-gene is genetics, Mr. Winchester, and will most likely either have come from you or their mother. A simple blood test will show us if you have the gene, Mr. Winchester. Would that be permissible?” John's head dropped at the mention of the mother, piquing the professor's interest, but came up a moment later with a solid nod. As Hank went to retrieve a needle and started the process of drawing the father's blood, Charles wheeled himself closer towards Sam on the opposite side of where John sat, smiling reassuringly at the young teen. “I do not want to do anything against your wishes, Samuel.” He said quietly. “Are you up to it?”
Hank finished with the extraction as Sam nodded with a frown. “Of course I want to help.” The seventeen year old answered, eyes darting to his father as John got up and left the clinic before coming to rest on the professor. “What do I do?”
Charles waved Jean closer until she stood beside them, and the two of them held out a hand for Sam to hold. The teen looked at the proffered hands curiously, but dutifully locked hands with them. “Now Samuel,” the professor began, casting a look at the lying figure of the older Winchester brother. “Jean and I will lead you towards Dean, and provide you the route. Once you feel you're in, try to reach Dean. If you feel threatened at any point, merely squeeze our hands and we'll attempt to bring you back.”
Sam nodded tightly as Jean smiled kindly at him, nervously squeezing his eyes shut. At first, he couldn't feel or hear anything besides the smooth hands of both the professor and Jean and the steady beeps of Dean's life support, but he kept at it and held his patience. Slowly, in small intermittent pauses, the feel of palms underneath his own disappeared, the beeps continued steadily, distracting him from losing contact with his guides, until he felt like he was floating in a sea of darkness with nothing but Dean's life support to keep him company. Worry had his pulse rising, heart thudding in his chest, but he kept quiet and still, trying to trust in his guide's abilities to lead him to where they were certain he should be, and only strained his senses so he wouldn't miss it.
That's when he felt it, the soft force of something grabbing him and pulling, pinging his senses and forcing an exhalation of breath from him. It only picked up in strength and speed, steadily pulling him further and further into the abyss of the dark, until it all but felt like he was hurtling towards a collision that was bound to be painful, one that wasn't meant to be. Panic gripped him then, hard and fast around his throat, heart fighting to come out via his mouth, and his fingers grappled at whatever they could, trying to squeeze, lips parting to try and say something, when all of a sudden he sort of crashed into something that felt like water, the shock of ice cold liquid freezing his senses for a moment before the sound of something shattering all around him burst into his frozen brain. 'This must be the block their talking about,' he thought dazedly, his body slowly waking up from the rough treatment bit by bit. The first sense to come back was touch, and he could feel himself sitting on a chair – the same comfortable chair he'd been sitting on in the clinic. Was he back there? At the clinic? Was he able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hand and have them bring him back? Worried, Sam blinked his eyes open, blinking a few times to get his sight to start working again. He recognised his surroundings as indeed being the clinic he'd been in before, his hearing suddenly popping and bringing with it the steady beeps from the machine Dean was hooked up to – but the clinic was empty.
Sam looked around slowly, taking in the empty seat his dad had been in, the place where Hank had been fiddling with some equipment, the space in front of him where the professor and Jean had been. The room was lit up, just like it'd been right before he'd closed his eyes, but besides the steady beeps, everything was silent in a way that irked him, had shivers crawling up his spine. Gulping loudly, Sam turned his attention to the bed, first seeing with no small amount of relief that Dean's life support was still working, that Dean was still there, that Dean was still under the blankets--
--that Dean's green eyes were peering back at him.
. . .
There was a very good reason Logan wasn't in the clinic. Every time he so much as saw John Winchester, he felt the raging need to punch the stupid bastard in the face and be done with it. Then he'd see the damn kid look on the verge of tears, his big brother holding on to life by a thin thread, and he found himself wanting to do more than just punch John Winchester in the face.
So he stayed far away from the clinic, and took his anger out on stimulations in the danger room.
He was heading to the garage now, thinking maybe it was time he did a tune up on his motorcycle while he still had the chance, when a sudden smell caused him to frown. Nose scrunching up, he sniffed the air carefully, scrunching his nose up in disgust at the smell of distant blood and rotten eggs, and followed it until he realized it was coming from the garage – the garage where his motorcycle was stored. Hurrying faster, Logan weaved through the hallways until he reached the door leading to the garage and the outside world, and rushed through it with a threat ready on his tongue – a threat that would never quite find the light of day.
The garage – his garage, and fine, maybe Summers too – had been vandalised, no word better for it, with drawings that looked to suspiciously be painted in blood spread across the walls. The floor was adorned with a huge circle one, no sign of his motorcycle or Summers' car anywhere, and John Winchester stood in the middle of the mess with a bowl of who knew what, a bunch of strange smelling herbs, and a man in an expensive looking dark suit.
Fighting back the urge for physical violence, Logan stalked into the room and clasped a fist round Winchester's shirt. “What the hell are you doing?” He growled, waving his free hand at the mess to clarify his question. “And who the hell is this?” His free hand jabbed in the direction of the man in the suit.
John didn't even look at him, keeping his focus on the man standing in the middle of the circle. Logan noticed John and himself were on the outside of the intricate looking design on the floor the man stood on, and even more so the bowl in John's hand was full of the stuff he'd been smelling, including the blood. There was a long cut across John's palm, blood still oozing rhythmically, a testament as to where the blood came from, but John didn't seem bothered by it all. “Saving my son.” He replied, voice bland and factual.
Logan took one look around the place, one look at the still bleeding palm, another at the bowl, and figured whatever the Winchester was planning, it wasn't something good. But if the guy had an idea on saving his son, then Logan wanted to hear it. “And how ya plan on doing that?”
The man in the suit chuckled, swaying on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into his jacket's pocket. “John here wants to make a deal. His son, for him. Heart warming, isn't it?”
Logan stared at the man, then at John, and back at the man. “And how's that gonna work? What are you?”
“Oh how rude of me,” the man replied, voice laden with a heavy British accent. “Name's Crowley. Deals are kind of my thing.”
“Let go of me, Wolverine.” John spoke up, voice thick with tension. “This is the only way.”
The only way for what? Logan didn't have a clue what this Crowley was, but he smelled wrong, he smelled like that woman with the black eyes did, a demon, and from what the kid (that being Sam, damn there was too many kids in his life) had told him, demons were never a good idea. John wanted to give himself to a demon to get his son back? Make a deal? How stupid was that? “You've got to be kidding me. No.”
The demon Crowley groaned in good nature as John finally glared at Logan. “You don't get a say in this. That's my son in there, all but dead, because of me.”
“And when you go running off with a demon – the very thing that put your son up there – ya think he's gonna be happy?” Logan shot back irritably. “Bad enough you've already messed that kid up with hunting him down.” John flinched, a sure sign Logan had hit a nerve, and the Canadian carried on. “Yer running away. Short and simple. You want to be gone with a good reason by the time he wakes up so you don't have to go through the explanations, or the chance he might hate you. You're a goddamn coward.”
“Shut up.” John hissed, glaring at him fiercely. “It's none of your business, so just leave.”
“Fuck no.” Logan swore, gripping John by the collar tighter, blades erupting from his free hand. He felt a sliver of vindictive satisfaction as Winchester's eyes glanced at the knives and widened in surprise, before blanking into a professionally neutral face. But Logan could still smell the spike in adrenaline coming off the man, as well as feel John's body tense further under his fist. “Yer going to go up to that clinic and care for your son, and not goddamn die, because it's the least you can do for him. You think dying will make up for all yer horrible decisions? Hell no. And you,” he pointed the blades at the demon. “Get the hell out of my garage. No deal.”
The demon cocked an eyebrow, smarmy as hell, and looked to John. Logan was sure the Winchester was going to just flip him off and continue on with the deal, he seemed pigheaded enough and had the same stubborn streak he remembered seeing in Sam's face that very first time, and wondered for a moment whether Dean had taken after his mother. But then something broke in John's expression, his body just went loose, like a puppet's strings snipped, and the dark haired man sighed warily before turning his back to the demon – a clear dismissal.
“Shame.” The British demon (and could you even get British demons? Logan thought this was insane.) sighed theatrically. “Now how about rubbing off a bit of this damn trap so I can leave, eh?” John turned towards him, inching closer to the circle and blurring the lines with the toe of his boot. “Wonderful,” the demon purred, “Now let's just hope Dean-o's strong enough to withstand the light.” A pause, then a glance at the garage door leading to the mansion, and the demon – Crowley – snorted in amusement. “Actually, let's hope your boy's strong enough to withstand a Reaper.”
And with that, the demon was suddenly gone. Just like that, one minute there and a blink later gone.
Logan rubbed at his eyes, sniffed at the air experimentally, but besides the smell of herbs and blood, nothing change except the increase smell of rotten eggs – Sulphur, he realised – signalling the demon's exit, and turned to face John. “Fuckin' creepy.” He muttered under his breath, then stopped as he saw all the colour drain from John's face. “Winchester?” He asked carefully. “You're not gonna faint, are ya?”
But John didn't wait for him, or seem to hear him, instead turning round and dashing towards the garage door like a bat out of hell, heading towards the clinic.
. . .
“You know you're not fooling me, right?”
Startled, Sam tumbled out of his chair, falling to the floor in a messy sprawl. He immediately scrambled back up to his feet, joy gripping him hard at seeing his brother awake and alive and conscious, but came to a complete stop on seeing Dean's expression. The older brother looked suspicious, wary, and perfectly fine on the hospital bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands resting in the space between them. The steady beep beep beep continued anyway, despite none of the equipment being hooked up to Dean, and Sam blinked and drank in the sight of his brother. Dean still looked pale, especially with the white clothing they'd changed him into at the hospital, freckles scattered across his cheekbones more apparent with the skin tone than they'd normally be.
“What're you talking about?” Sam questioned, picking up the chair he'd thrown over and sitting back in it.
Dean scowled at him, and Sam only then noticed how his brother was tense, wound up tight and ready to spring, eyeing him like one eyes a rabid animal. “You're not Sammy. You can't pretend you're him and talk me into leaving.”
Leaving? Leaving? Sam scooted forward until he was right next to his brother, panic gripping him at his brother's words. “Leaving? Dean where does it want you to go? What is it? Who do you think I am?”
A snort. “Oh, rich. You're seriously gonna play that card with me?”
Sam swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “Dean.”
And Dean's eyes widened in recognition. “Sam?”
Relief chased away the panic, and finally Sam grabbed at his brother's arms and held on tight. “It's me, Dean. It's me. What the hell is going on? Who's after you? Why won't you wake up?”
“Wake up?” Dean immediately responded, confused. “What're you talking about Sammy?”
“Dean,” Sam sighed. “You've been in a coma for three weeks. You won't wake up.”
His brother's pale face suddenly went paler, just a shade lighter than a vengeful ghost's. “Shit,” Dean swore, fingers curling into a fist. “I don't know how long I've been here, but it hasn't been that long. It couldn't have? Are you OK? Is Dad...? Is Dad OK? Wait, if I'm in a coma, then what're you doing here?”
Sam patted his brother's arm consolingly, and went about answering his brother's questions, never forgetting his own. “We're all OK, Dean. Got the demon too, but you were badly hurt. Professor Xavier and Jean have been trying to get a reading on you – remember them? The telepathic guys – but they said you had some kind of block on you and couldn't get through. So they got me to try, and here I am.”
His brother's reply to this was to scowl harder, jerkily getting off the bed and standing up to his feet. “You shouldn't have come here, Sam. It's dangerous!”
“Dean.” Sam said slowly, carefully. “What's after you? Why are you stuck here?”
Something floated in his periphery vision, but when Sam turned to look he saw nothing. Dean must've seen it too, for he went a shade paler still and scrambled across the bed to Sam, clutching his little brother by the shoulders and pulling him in a random direction. “We have to go.”
Sam allowed himself to be manhandled, despite already being an inch or so taller than Dean, but didn't let up in his questioning. “Dean, what is it?”
“A Reaper, OK?!” Dean answered back harshly, spitting the words out from between his teeth. “It wants me to go into the freakin' light and won't take no for an answer.”
Sam's feet stopped moving, inertia yanking Dean back from stalking ahead. “A Reaper?” Sam hissed, all pretence of calmness flying out of the window. “What the hell, why?”
“Well, apparently, when a person dies, they get their own Reaper – how the hell should I know?” Dean forcibly yanked him again, moving Sam until they left the clinic and entered out into the hallway. Again, Sam noticed the lack of people, the deserted, still, mansion, and figured it made sense if this was Dean's mental landscape and a Reaper was after him. At least, he thought it should make sense. Dean came to a stop at a door, opening it up and shoving Sam inside before following through, and Sam found himself in what he knew to be Hank's office but with a helluva lot more decorations. Devil's Traps, protection sigils, hiding sigils, everything and anything Sam had seen and read in books was everywhere, some in blood and others in sharpie or whatever Dean must have found lying around in the office. Dean must've seen him admiring the view, because after shoving him into a chair and sitting in one across from it, Dean spoke up again. “None of it works, geekboy, so don't look so happy.”
Focusing on the situation at hand, Sam scooted closer, unconsciously giving in to his need to be close to his big brother. “Dean, even if it is a Reaper, it's fine. We'll find a way to get you out of here, man. Alright?”
Green eyes studied him before closing as Dean sighed and ran a hand across his face and into his hair. “Look Sammy, I might not be able to leave, but I sure as hell ain't dragging you to the afterlife with me. You have to go.”
“No, Dean.” Sam instantly replied, not even bothering to say I can't. He didn't know for sure, but he doubted he'd be able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hands even if he'd closed his eyes and willed it. “I'm not leaving you. I'm stronger now, Dean, a hell of a lot stronger than when you'd left me at the mansion as a fourteen year old. I can help.”
Dean laughed incredulously at him, shaking his head. “This is a Reaper, Sammy, not a ghost or a werewolf. You can't fight death.”
The door to the office rattled, grabbing both their attention. Sam turned to look and saw the dark shape of a figure behind the opaque glass, and couldn't help but wonder how a Reaper would look. That's when the door opened, the door knob turning as if Dean hadn't locked it and jammed a doorstop underneath it, and a dark haired woman walked through. The first thing Sam really noticed about her was her clothes – white, bland, just like Dean's – and how unassuming she looked. There was no black cloak, no hood, no scythe or any other weapon to be seen. Hell, she was even cute, the type of girl Sam knew his brother would go for in any other situation. He didn't let it fool him though, Dean had gotten out of his chair and stood a step in front of Sam, tense and protective in a way Sam had missed.
“Tessa.” Dean greeted her curtly, failing to cover up Sam behind him since his little brother was now taller.
Sam couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the name, watching as the newly named Tessa returned the nod sadly. “Dean.” She hadn't seemed to yet notice Sam, which was a miracle in and of itself – or maybe Reapers could only see the souls they'd been chosen to go after? Sam didn't know, but he was definitely going to read up on them as soon as they, him and Dean, were out. “Dean, it's time. I can't keep letting you hang on like this. You have to choose. Stay and become the things you hunt? Or go?”
“You know I can't go, Tessa.” Dean replied surly, ignoring Sam's fingers gripping into the material of his shirt at the small of his back. “I have to get back, I can't just go.”
“You won't.” Sam spoke up, realizing this was something the two had already argued over and not wanting to waste their time. Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma, Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma for three weeks, meaning the passage of time here was different than it was on the outside. If Sam didn't hurry this up and get Dean out of here to safety, back to the waking world, who knew whether or not the professor and Jean would just forcibly bring him back? “He's not going to die. He's coming back with me, alive.”
Tessa's dark eyes landed on him over Dean's shoulder, startled at his presence before those eyes narrowed into recognition. The air around her right hand shimmered, and- there, there was the scythe Sam had been expecting, shorter than the ones shown in lore but looking just as sharp and deadly, and the young woman didn't appear as unseemly as she'd first looked. “It's his time.” She argued, fingers gripping round the scythe warningly as she took a step towards them. “I don't know how you got here, but it's my duty to take him and I won't let you stop me.”
Incensed, Sam shoved Dean aside, using his slightly taller frame and gravity to get Dean to budge and stood in front, keeping his brother behind him. Just as he'd done in the cabin, with far more confidence than since then, Sam raised his arm and held his palm out towards the Reaper in preparation. Tessa's grip on the scythe tightened, and she took one step towards him, another, then a third, before lunging towards them with the scythe arching above her and down again straight at them. Sam didn't so much as falter, gathering every ounce of whatever it was and thrusting his hand at her, batting her away with his telekinesis just like he'd been taught, and the force of it crashed into the Reaper, taking her by surprise, and her pretty face twisted into recognition and disgust.
“Azazel!” She shouted, thrown backwards by the telekinetic push, and crashed through the door she'd arrived through. Sam ran after her, not willing to let her go, dimly wondering why she'd called him that and what the name could mean, but Dean grabbed him by the arms and held him tight, wrapping his arms around him as Tessa suddenly dissipated into wisps of gray smoke, disappearing like grains of sand.
And the next thing Sam knew, he was staring into John Winchester's frantic face.
. . .
Dean gasped, coughing and spluttering as Hank and John set about getting rid of the incubator. Sam was beside him in a blink with a glass of water, a pale face, and a straw, and Dean, knowing from knowledge not to drink too fast, carefully sipped at the cool liquid to sooth his aching throat. When all the water was finished and he still didn't feel satisfied, Dean groaned pitifully and lay back down on the bed, trying to even his breathing and slow his racing heart.
“How'd you get the Colt, anyway?” He croaked out after some thought, remembering the cabin, remembering the Yellow Eyed Demon, remembering Sam holding the legendary weapon and threatening to use it.
“What,” Sam replied indignantly. “You really thought I'd just sit in this mansion doing nothing?”
And Dean snorted. “Should've known,” he groaned theatrically with a knowing tilt, peering at Sam through half mast eyes. “You got a damn vision 'bout it, didn't you?” He accused, then tried hard not to laugh and irritate his wounds as Sam flushed at being found out and tried to cover it up with an epic bitchface.
“Hey, where's my car, anyway?”