Crossroads of Eden - Section Five

[glasslogic]

Chapter Eight

Sam crumpled up another page of the book and tossed it. It sailed in a graceful arc through the air to land... just shy of the little trashcan he was using as a basket. It was in good company there, alongside pages one through eighty-seven, minus the few that had actually made it inside. Sam tore out page eighty-nine and sent it to join its fellows on the carpet.

The constant irritation of being hungry was just one more layer to the stress he was already under, and restless energy was starting to make him consider stupid things again. Like how hard could a Hellhound really be to kill? They could be touched, and there were knives in the kitchen. If he sharpened one, and had a handful of salt to throw at it first, maybe he could slow it down enough to go for its throat... Or at least force it to kill him, Meg’s orders aside. Of course that plan would depend on having salt in the house in the first place, which he didn’t. Sam ripped out another page and tossed it towards the basket. It rebounded off the rim and settled with most of the rest on the well-worn rug. Even his coordination sucked tonight.

Sam’s recollections of what happened during the few minutes he was semi-conscious in the daytime were generally limited to a sense of panic, blinding light, and the drone of voices over his head, but Ruby assured him the length of time was getting longer.

She had been standing in the doorway at sunset; the weight of her gaze on his back was as telling as the spicy aroma of the Chinese take-out she had brought him. “He’s pleased with your progress.”

“Screw you,” he had said, voice raspy from the daily session with the tube.

“This isn’t my fault, Sam.”

He had turned over to face her where she stood outlined by the bright lights of the hall. “Maybe not, but I don’t see you doing a whole hell of a lot to help me either.”

“I told you the score,” she had said. “You’re the one who doesn’t want to play ball.” Ruby held up the plastic bag. “Want company?”

“Yeah. Dean’s.”

She had dropped the bag on the nightstand with an irritated thud. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and reached for it, then pulled his arm back with a hiss. He prodded the long, angry burn down the length of his arm with a tentative finger and found blisters. “What happened?”

Ruby gestured towards the window and Sam was surprised to see heavy, dark curtains hanging over the slatted blinds. “You never said you burned in sunlight.”

Sam refrained from telling her that would have been impossible since he hadn’t known himself, the last time he had been exposed it had caused nothing more than some redness. But he wasn’t in a sharing sort of mood. “Someone leave the blinds open?”

She shrugged. “You usually have the blankets pulled up and the light through the blinds doesn’t go high enough to hit your face. Today he came in and your arm was... smoking.”

The news had caused a tight smile of satisfaction to curve the corners of his mouth. It gave Sam hope. Whatever the demons were doing to him, he wasn’t going down without a fight. He just needed more weapons. Or more back-up. But with more demonically tainted blood being washed through his body every day in an attempt to reverse what the vampire blood had been doing... the waiting game would be a losing one before long, no matter how much of a fight his body put up.

His stomach growled and Sam sighed. He had eaten the take-out Ruby had brought him earlier, but it had barely taken the edge off. The thought had occurred on and off that maybe what he was craving so badly was Dean, and more specifically-- Dean’s blood. It was an encouraging thought, even if still felt a little... off. He definitely wasn’t craving Ruby’s, or that of any other of his captors. Just the idea of swallowing demon blood caused the same queasy reaction that it always had.

Small favors, but still reassuring.

He dragged his thoughts back to the present. Sam ripped out another page and crumpled it up, but before he could throw it, the front door slammed hard enough to shake the wall he was leaning against. The noise had Sam’s instant attention, because other than the occasional creak of a floorboard, the demons drifted through the house like ghosts, and a slammed door spoke of anger. He was in favor of anything that pissed his captors off.

There was no guard on his door tonight, and no real need with the Hellhounds roaming the grounds, so Sam was able to creep down the short hallway in his bare feet and through the living room. He preferred to keep his own company, but there was only so much time he could brood in the tiny bedroom and he had paced every room of the house enough to automatically avoid the tell-tale squeaks in the ancient floor. The voices were coming from the kitchen. Sam crouched in the shadows of the dining room where anyone moving around was unlikely to trip over him. He recognized the yellow-eyed demon’s voice right off.

“--asking you for too much, Meg? All you had to do was watch and report. Is that too taxing for your limited skills?” His voice brought to Sam’s mind images of snakes and crackling flames. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.

“You had me watching this one,” Meg said sullenly. “I have to use others to be my eyes and ears and it’s not my fault they can’t take orders.”

“What kind of demon are you if you can’t even keep the help in line?” Sam knew Ruby’s mocking tones instantly.

“I don’t know what place you think you have in this conversation,” Yellow-Eyes lashed back. “You were only given one task by your mistress and you seem to be failing as badly as Meg is.”

Ruby’s voice was lower when she spoke again.

“I’m doing my job,” she insisted.

Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough.” The yellow-eyed demon’s voice cut through the bickering and Meg and Ruby fell silent in its wake. “What’s happening in Peoria with our interest there?”

Nothing answered him but silence.

“I see,” he said after a long, awkward moment. “Another mess like this, Meg, and I might forget how fond I am of you. You’re coming with me; maybe another object lesson will help you be more careful in the future.” The demon raised its voice slightly. “And, Sam--”

Sam felt his heart skip a beat.

“Try not to get terribly excited about the situation. We won’t be leaving until you are all tucked in for the day, and Ruby and the rest of your playmates will still be here to make sure nothing interrupts your rest.”

A blast of hot, fetid air blew in Sam’s face. He stood and backed slowly up. There had been no sound, no movement of air, nothing to indicate he hadn’t been perfectly alone in the dark room until the beast had chosen to make its presence known.

“And the hounds, of course,” Yellow-Eyes added casually.

~~~~~
Dean slapped a hand onto John’s motel room door once in warning, and then twisted the handle so the lock broke, letting himself in. John was sitting up in bed wearing his undershirt and boxers, with his hair standing on end and the covers still bunched up around his legs, but his eyes were clear and the gun he had leveled at Dean’s head was rock steady.

“Get out.”

Dean scooped discarded jeans up off the floor and tossed them on the bed. “Get dressed. It’s now or never.”

“Sam?” John asked, slowly lowering the gun as Dean paced restlessly at the end of the bed.

“Yes, Sam; what else would I be talking about?”

John glanced towards the window. “It’s the middle of the day.”

Dean froze and glared. “Are you slow? Do you need a caffeine pump or a cold shower or something?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?” John rubbed at his face with one hand, keeping the gun gripped firmly with the other and his eyes locked onto the uninvited vampire wandering his room.

“I was staking out the house; I saw a couple of demons leave,” Dean said with forced patience. “When they left, they took with them most of the aura of bad news the place was radiating. I don’t know how long they’ll be gone, and I don’t know how far they went. But if we’re going to do this, the time is now. Are you with me now? Because this is taking time and you’re still sitting on your ass.”

“He’s unguarded?”

“No.” Dean snorted. “I said some of the madmen left the asylum, not that he was being served up gift-wrapped on a plate. There’s still demons there. And fucking Hellhounds; I can smell their stench a mile away, but the big threats have gone to get their nails done or some other crap I don’t want to know about. Are you ready?”

John had finally set the gun down and dragged his jeans on. “Bobby will be here in a couple of hours--”

“What part of I don’t know how long they’ll be gone are you having the trouble with?” Dean demanded.

“Do you have a plan?” John snapped back. “Because you’re still talking about the two of us against an unknown number of demons--”

“Fewer than there were last night.”

“Twenty is fewer than thirty,” John said grimly.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Including the hounds, we’re probably talking anywhere from four to eight.”

“And you’re sure they didn’t take Sam with them?”

“I’m sure. Now if you’re done primping, can you get your ass in the truck so we can get this over with before the real threats come back?”

John ignored him. “We need a plan.”

“Got one.” Dean grabbed John’s bag and looked around to see if there was anything else that needed to be packed. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way. But we’re not coming back here, so--”

John ripped his duffle bag from Dean’s hand and headed for the door. “This isn’t my first rodeo either. Let’s go.”

~~~~~
Dean had oversized dark glasses on and a hoodie pulled down to his eyebrows. His fingers drummed against the door with restless energy. “Are you ready?”

“We need to be closer,” John said. “We’re still at least half a mile away. I can’t carry Sam and fight demons this far over open terrain.”

“If we get any closer you’re going to have to fight your way in too. This is better. I’ll go in first, get everything nice and stirred up, then signal you. You bring the truck in closer, grab Sam, and get the hell out.”

“This truck’s not exactly subtle,” John pointed out. “How much of a window do you think you can give me? I’m going to lose time looking for him.”

Dean was impressed with John’s self-control. His breathing and heart rate were so even he could have been reading the paper instead of preparing to storm a demonic fortification to rescue his son. “It’s a tiny house, and I have no idea. I can’t take guesses until I have a headcount-- but aren’t you some kind of fearsome monster hunter? You’ve got rock salt and holy water. If you get intercepted, improvise. Just don’t get Sam killed.”

John gave him a baleful look.

“Can I have that gun now?” Dean asked.

“You wouldn’t have this problem if you carried your own.”

Dean pulled down the glasses to give John the full benefit of his look. He didn’t bother replying. John leaned over and retrieved one of his back-ups from the glove compartment.

“Here.”

Dean took it and did a professional enough job of checking it over that John was grudgingly satisfied.

“I didn’t think you used guns,” John said.

“I didn’t say I didn’t know how,” Dean answered absently, attention once again focused on the sunny field and shallow wood that stood between them and the house where Sam was. To the sides and back behind the house stretched miles of undeveloped forest. “Just because I don’t usually use a certain weapon doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea to be familiar with it.”

John nodded shortly; he got that logic. “We’re ready then?”

“No time like the present. Try to resist the urge to shoot me.” Dean slid out of the truck and shrugged out of the oversized hoodie, leaving it pooled on the leather seat. “For Sam. Get it on him as soon as you can.”

“Why?” John asked suspiciously.

“He might not handle the sunlight so well,” Dean said simply, not wanting to get drawn into any kind of debate or argument. “It would suck if we went through all of this and he went up in flames in the home stretch. Also...” Dean hesitated, unsure how to phrase his next suggestion in a way that wouldn’t get Sam shot out of hand. “When you get him away from here, leave him alone. Don’t mess with him, put him in a room by himself and just close the door.” He slipped out of the truck and closed the door before John could ask any more questions, and vanished into the trees.

~~~~~
The few mouthfuls of blood Dean had taken from John the previous night were enough to make his skin prickle unpleasantly in the sunlight, but not enough to cause actual concern. He would rather deal with discomfort than the liability of the hoodie in a physical fight-- and there was definitely going to be an unholy brawl. Dean wasn’t even pretending to try and avoid it. He walked a direct path through the trees to the front door, enjoying the novelty of literally asking for trouble. He needed a big distraction to give John the window to find and grab Sam, and explosions took more work than just starting a fight.

He was aware of the first hound about the time he walked out onto the unkempt lawn. It trailed behind him a good fifteen feet, paws like dinner plates making only the faintest rustle in the crisp leaves and tall grass. As one supernatural predator to another, Dean had to admire their stealth and stalking abilities-- but that was just professional courtesy. Before the mess with Sam had forced him to pay more attention, he had generally just discounted the demonic as too wasteful and arrogant to be of much interest.

And Dean had never much appreciated other people’s dogs.

He reached the door and tucked his sunglasses into a back pocket. Getting hit in the face wasn’t a big deal, getting hit in the face wearing glasses could be crippling. Dean pasted a smile on his face and rang the doorbell.

Showtime.

~~~~~
John waited with steeled nerves in the truck, counting minutes until he got the signal to act. It galled him to rely on Dean, but it would have taken him months to find Sam without the vampire’s help, and the odds of rescuing Sam intact without Dean were also abysmal. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that wondered if rescue was really the mission he should be embracing. Sunlight through the windshield was glaring in his eyes and he flipped the visor down in irritation. The movement caused a picture he kept taped to the backside of it to flutter free of the felt. It landed on his leg and he stared at it. A bright-eyed, smiling Mary held their infant son in a cheap studio photo-- Sears, or J.C. Penny’s maybe; whoever had been having a sale. He had forced himself to forget so much, needing clarity of thought to do his job well and calculate the risks that would keep him alive. But it didn’t take much to chink the armor when it was struck in the right place. The picture had been such a big deal to Mary, getting dressed up for their first family portraits. Sam was barely three months old, a sweet baby and still untouched by the shadows of a dark fate. John’s own face stared out at him from more than twenty years of time, and oceans of pain. Proud, open, and totally fucking clueless of the nightmare his life would be in a matter of weeks. Their lives.

John closed his eyes and tried to remember how Sam had looked the last time he had seen him. Not a child anymore by a long shot, barely even a young man. He’d buried a woman he loved and had been touched by the same fires that had consumed John’s own life. Hatred, vengeance, rage. Sam had been looking for a target, needed that outlet, and John, who should have understood that drive better than anyone else, had sent him away. Rebuffed, and with no explanations-- because he was a coward, and couldn’t bring himself to tell Sam the truth.

Because he had wanted to keep his son safe. And now Sam was not only the target of demonic attention, but also a plaything for vampires.

So much for safety.

His bitter recriminations were cut off by the echoing crack of a gunshot. Dean’s signal that it was time for his part of the plan.

He drove the truck up cautiously to the dilapidated house, but nothing came to meet him. From around the back of the house, John could hear the occasional shout or snarl, but for the moment whatever Dean was engaged with seemed suitably distracted. John left the truck running and wished Dean grim good fortune as he headed for the front door, now hanging off its hinges in the entry-way. The sixth sense that let hunters survive the insanity they exposed themselves to had him ducking the hand that reached for his throat before he even registered the blur. He had the shotgun aimed as he straightened up.

“Your little bullets won’t hurt me,” sneered the black-eyed man facing him.

John didn’t bother replying, just pulled the trigger and watched the demon stagger under the double barrel of salt rounds. While the creature was stunned John draped a rosary around its throat with practiced ease and wrapped another one around its hands, effectively trapping it in the stolen flesh it wore, binding it with restraints more effective than the most tempered steel. It howled like he had used smoldering wire instead of fragile string and wooden beads and John shoved it into a closet and propped a chair under the handle. The rosaries would keep it too busy to get in his way for a few minutes, and by then he hoped to be long gone.

Dean had been right about the size of the house. The kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom and master bedroom only took seconds to clear. Unless they had Sam in some kind of root cellar, that left one place to search. John twisted the handle of the only closed door and pushed it open. It swung on silent hinges leaving John with a clear view of the figure lying on the bed, back to the door. Sam looked bigger than John remembered, and oddly fragile at the same time, crumpled bonelessly across the sagging mattress like he’d been discarded there. The threadbare sweatpants and t-shirt stained with what looked like old blood weren’t helping the image. The room was dark, heavy curtains over the window blocking out every trace of sunlight so that the only illumination came from the hall at his back. John flipped the switch and his eyes narrowed. The faded blood wasn’t just on Sam’s t-shirt. It stained the pillow and sheets he was curled up on too.

John’s duty as a hunter and his burden as a father wrestled in his chest. The shotgun in his hands was an incredible weight, heavier than he could ever remember it being. Sam was... asleep, lashes a dark curve against too-pale cheeks. His breathing was calm and deep, undisturbed by the free-for-all going on outside, clearly audible through the window glass. John could do it now and Sam would never have to wake up again. Never have to worry about vampires, or the path he had been condemned to at the age of six months. Never have to find out what the demons wanted him for badly enough to destroy their entire family. John brushed a lock of hair gently from Sam’s face, the brief moment he had to make a decision passing with each heartbeat. He wondered which of them Sam’s painless death would be a greater mercy to.

Was honest enough to suspect it might be himself.

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in.”

John spun, and as he did, something wrenched the shotgun from his hands with incredible force. He found himself facing a petite woman with blond hair and an unamused expression. She held his own gun on him like she knew what she was doing and the strength and speed she had used to rip it from his grip told him all he needed to know about her nature. Salt rounds might not kill him, but they sure as hell wouldn’t do him a lot of good from that range either.

“The great John Winchester. I wonder what you’re doing here?”

“You know damn well what I’m here for,” John said levelly. He wasn’t going to get the drop on her like he had the other, and frantically reviewed his limited options.

“No,” she disagreed. “I know what the vampire is doing here; he wants to take Sam away from us and share his own special... gift. But you? A hunter? I’m not so sure you have the same kind of interest in Sam’s continued health.”

“He’s my son,” John said tightly.

“Yes,” she smiled. “That must be quite the dilemma. I’m almost interested enough in seeing how you resolve it to leave you two alone for a few minutes. But I have my own use for Sam, so I’m afraid that will have to--”

There was a flash of movement at her belt and then her pale blue eyes flew wide in shock as a flash of light crackled behind them. She coughed, and more light flickered under her skin, visible even through her clothes. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.

“Sam--” she wheezed, and then the shotgun fell from nerveless hands and she crumpled.

In the shadows behind her, Dean was standing with a look of surprise on his face. He bent and pulled a long, serrated blade from her back and gave it an admiring look.

“Cool,” he said and slicked the blood off with his thumb then tucked it into his own belt. He glanced up at John. “Are you okay?

“I’m good.”

“Then get him the hell out of here,” Dean nodded towards the bed, gaze lingering for only the briefest of seconds. “They’re calling for help, and I don’t know how far away help is.” Dean jerked the curtain aside to look around the front yard, and then vanished through the doorway and was gone.

John grabbed Sam by one shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Hazel eyes fluttered open and after a moment focused on John’s face. Sam’s pupils had shrunk down to pin-pricks, making him look almost blind, and John didn’t like how the paleness of his skin was starting to turn pink where sunlight through the open curtains touched it. Sam gave him a sleepy smile and mumbled something that might have been “dad.”

John had the distinct impression Sam wasn’t all there. He didn’t think smiles were what Sam would be giving him if he was in any state of actual consciousness, not considering their recent history. He pulled Bobby’s gift from his pocket and looped it around Sam’s throat, making sure it was tucked securely into his t-shirt. “Hey, kiddo. Time to go.”

Sam kind of nodded and then his eyelids drifted down again. John shook him gently, and then less gently as a scream sounded from somewhere close by and Sam showed no inclination to move.

“Sam, wake up,” John barked in the tone he had learned from the most feared drill sergeant to ever cross his path. It had served him well in Sam’s childhood, and served him well now.

Sam’s eyes didn’t open again, but he frowned and shrunk back from John’s grip. His words were slurred, but intelligible. “No, won’t... Let... go... Can’t make me.... swallow that...”

The faded bloodstains covering Sam’s clothes and the bedding suddenly made a kind of horrible sense, and John tightened his grip, hauling Sam into a sitting position. He untied the hoodie he had fastened around his waist and quickly pulled it onto Sam, zipping the front and tugging the hood down low. Sam was too damn big, but John managed to get him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and headed for the front door.

~~~~~
Behind the house, Dean heard the rumble as the truck shifted into gear. His sensitive hearing followed its progress all the way down the long, winding road until the distinctive sound blended with the highway and Sam and John were gone. He was injured and furious, but Sam was safe.

Now all John had to do was hold up his end of the bargain by taking Sam where they had agreed to meet and things would be more-or-less fine. There had been something... off, about the way Sam had felt in the room. It wasn’t the fledgling bond the demons had broken, and it wasn’t the demon blood he had been forced to swallow in the time he had been captive. It was something... else, something that ruffled Dean’s feathers and made him grimly suspicious that if John tried to betray him by stealing Sam away, he would get what he richly deserved.

But Sam didn’t deserve it, and Dean didn’t want to lose Sam to something so stupidly preventable. All John had to do with stick with the program, for at least as long as it took Dean to catch up with them. He had already given John all the warning he could even before he had laid eyes on Sam for himself.

“Just go down already!” Dean snarled at the demon circling him. He had a fractured leg that wouldn’t let him simply run from them, and he had important house-burning plans he still needed to get to. Just in case Sam had left anything behind the demons might find useful. There was also the lingering chance that the demons he had seen leave earlier were on their way back, and nothing was stopping the ones he had already mangled from finding new bodies and returning to the fight. Though considering how deserted the area was, hopefully that would take them a while. “I’ve got better things to do!”

And then one of the hounds indicated it hadn’t had enough either. Dean pulled the blade he had taken off the corpse of the demon he had killed in Sam’s room and dug in for the long haul.


Chapter Nine

There were less than ten minutes left before sunset when Dean finally pulled up at the weathered motel he had asked John to meet him at. It was a quaint little pit he had located in the few minutes he had taken for logistics before dragging John off to rescue Sam earlier. The place was set back from the road and the Internet pictures showed enough overgrowth that limp or semi-conscious people that had to be moved would be fairly well hidden from casual view. It did not in any sense of the word appear to be a happening kind of place, and in Dean’s experience, desperate people asked fewer questions. It had been a universal truth over the centuries.

He found John’s truck parked in a gravel lot on the backside of the motel, and left his stolen car a few spots away. The owner wasn’t going to look for it, but better safe than sorry. Whatever hunters thought, Dean knew damn well that some humans were wastes of life and he’d been in need of a great deal of blood, both for healing and for Sam. So he had helped himself to one, and afterwards, the car his meal would no longer be needing. Humanity wouldn’t grieve overmuch.

A grim-faced John Winchester opened the door at his knock, then stepped back to give him room to enter. Inside, the place was the usual kind of run-down affair Dean recognized from other venues of the same nature. A heavy door set in the wall was cracked open a few inches, indicating that John had either rented, or just broken into, the adjoining suite.

“Any problems?”

“I just brought him in and put him to bed,” John said shortly.

Dean nodded. “Was he dead weight?”

John shook his head. “He kept wanting to lean on me in the car, almost pulled me down onto the bed with him, but I don’t think he was really conscious.”

Dean checked his watch. “No, he wouldn’t have been.”

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to be awake at all.”

“They’ve been flooding his system with demonic blood for over a week now,” Dean said, tired and not in the mood for conversation. “Who knows what’s been fucked up?” He met John’s eyes. “I’m glad you remembered the plan.”

They both knew it wasn’t memory that would have been the problem.




Part Six