Devastation and Reform 6/15

[faye_dartmouth]

 

A/N: I hope this chapter reads a bit more excitingly. It should be picking up from here on out :)   Previous chapters here.

-o-

Chapter Six

By the time midnight rolled around, Dean was ready to be done. He'd watched Sam fiddle around the room all day, which made him feel like he needed to be doing something, when all he really wanted to do was sleep. Or eat. Or watch mindless TV. He wasn't picky.

So to finally be loading the car, while it may not have seemed like much, was a needed relief. Doing something was better than watching his little brother's OCD tendencies.

Not to mention that the sooner they were done with this hunt, the sooner they could move on. There was just something about this one—something about the kid they were hunting, about the way Sam related to it—it was making Sam damn near impossible to live with. The kid was about to positively explode with the brooding.

So it seemed to be time for some big brother intervention. Trying to cajole Sam out of it would probably just make the kid sulk more. Therefore, complaining was his best course of action. If he was negative, Sam, true to his contrary nature, would have to be positive.

"I can't wait for this to be over," Dean muttered purposefully as he exited the door.

Sam was leaning over the trunk, arranging something. "It's just a hunt, Dean," Sam said, just as Dean expected. "Part of the job."

"Well, it sucks," Dean said, depositing his bag in the car. "Some kid wants to get in touch with his inner cat and we have to come in to save him from being a mass murderer."

"It's not like he meant for this to happen," Sam said.

"Yeah, but he's the one who messed with this crap in the first place."

Sam's voice sharpened. "He just wanted to change his destiny, Dean. To be a better person. There's nothing wrong with that."

Dean stopped at the tone of Sam's voice and looked into his brother's eyes, noting the seriousness that lingered there.

"What?" Sam demanded.

"You sure we're still talking about Michael Whitefoot?"

Embarrassed, Sam looked away.

"Come on, Sam. You think I don't see what's going on here?"

His brother sighed shakily. "Come on, man," he said, a little fast, a little forced. "We've got work to do."

That was undoubtedly true, but Sam wasn't getting off the hook that easily. "You're nothing like him," Dean tried again, emphatically. "You know that right?"

Sam grimaced and then forced a smile. "Let's just do this, Dean."

There was a hint of pleading in his low voice, and Dean found he couldn't bring himself to deny it. No matter what their motives, what lurked beneath, right now they had a job to do.

Maybe saving Michael, finishing the hunt—maybe that would have a positive influence on Sam. It could only improve the kid's self-esteem and would surely assuage some of Sam's doubts that evil is inevitable.

That was enough for him. "Okay," he said with a nod.

Sam hesitated, and Dean almost flinched at how young Sam looked—how innocent, hopeful. Like he was trusting in Dean to make it right, make it better. "Okay," the younger brother replied finally, a little stronger now.

Dean slammed the trunk shut, and moved to the driver's side, digging the keys out of his pocket. Sam moved around the opposite side, opening the door, and Dean could feel his younger brother's eyes tracking him, watching him.

Without waiting, Dean opened the door and slid inside. The engine was rumbling to life when Sam sat down next to him. He gave his brother one last glance; the kid was staring out the windshield, an unreadable expression on his face.

Putting the car into reverse, Dean pressed his foot to the pedal, and pulled out.

-o-

The drive was silent. They'd already gone over the details of the hunt, and truthfully, Sam had nothing more to say. Nothing that Dean wanted to hear anyway. And Sam didn't want to hear any more lectures. He didn't want any more platitudes. He just wanted to save Michael, save more people. Maybe if he saved enough, he could save himself.

Dean didn't get that. Dean tried, but he couldn't get it.

Casting a discreet glance at his brother, he could tell that Dean wasn't up for much talking either. All of Sam's talk of destiny and of evil was a total buzz kill on Dean's buoyant personality. Dean was brooding as much as he ever could and had even neglected to blast the radio with some of his ridiculous mullet rock.

When they reached the warehouse, the parking lot was abandoned, just as they had anticipated. Whatever story Dean had fed to Elizabeth had worked.

As Dean slammed it into park, Sam felt his nerves prickle and he swallowed reflexively. He was taking a deep breath when his brother reached across the seat and opened the glove compartment.

Sam was curious only for a second before he realized what his brother was grabbing. "Whoa, you're not taking iron rounds, are you?"

Dean shrugged, pulling the gun free. "Why not? I want to be able to stop the thing if the hunt goes south."

"But it's not just a thing. You shoot it, you shoot Michael."

Dean just stared at him, waiting. "So?"

Sam's mouth dropped open. "So we're not just going to kill a kid."

The argument was a familiar one, the same one of ends and means that had plagued them whenever something human was put in danger. Sam had argued it in circles with Dean more times than he cared to remember. For Dean, this was one thing he could still see in black and white. Things that killed, things that caused destruction and pain—those things were evil. Evil could be killed, no questions asked. He'd learned that much from his father.

Sam simply couldn't buy it. Now more than ever. Not when he identified with Michael, could see himself in him at every turn. Putting a bullet in this kid would be like putting one in himself. Seeing Dean do it—well, it was another nail in Sam's coffin, another sign that evil is permanent and unavoidable, that his destiny was inescapable.

Dean studied him, his eyes tense, frustrated. Then Dean's expression slackened, almost in defeat.

To Sam's relief, Dean didn't try to argue the point. It was an argument his brother couldn't win, and Sam didn't want to expend the energy.

"We need to protect ourselves, Sam," Dean told him seriously, "first and foremost. Not to mention the rest of the town. If we don't stop Michael, someone else could die."

Sam refused to give in though, his eyes set and hard, flaring with a sympathy he knew Dean could see.

"Fine," Dean said finally, teeth clenched. "We'll do it your way."

Relief spread through Sam, but he didn't let it show. He stared at his brother, waiting, until Dean reluctantly put the gun back into the glove compartment.

Sam hesitated, just for a moment more, before he was satisfied. Then he opened his door and climbed out, heading to the trunk.

-o-

Dean watched his brother go, patiently.

He'd decided to placate Sam. Joking and distraction hadn't worked so far, so maybe telling the kid what he wanted to hear would work. There were simply some arguments he couldn't win, and, in the end, it didn't matter if Sam agreed with him or not. He'd still do what he had to do, and sometimes the less Sam knew, the better. He hated to admit that, but maybe John had been right about that one too.

But Sam had to believe it, and Dean would make sure he did. Just for his protection.

Dean waited until Sam was far enough away then took the weapon and pocketed it anyway. Sam's puppy dog eyes were compelling, but nothing was stronger than his need to protect his brother.

-o-

Dean guided them to the back of the building, sneaking along the wall, just below the defunct security camera. The company was small enough that the security system was nothing more than locks (because who wanted to steal paper anyway?), which Sam made short work of, while Dean kept out a cautious eye.

Once unlocked, they slipped inside, moving in the shadows throughout the warehouse, which was, thanks to Elizabeth, indeed abandoned. Not that he'd doubted her. After what he'd given her, he expected nothing less.

There was no question about it. He was good. Women could never resist his powers of persuasion.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sam thwapping him hard on the back of the head. "Are you paying attention?" his brother hissed.

Dean rubbed his head, glaring at his brother. "We don't have to whisper, you know," he said, making his voice purposefully loud.

Sam glared at him. "It doesn't hurt to be safe," he snapped, though Dean noted that his brother used his regular voice.

"You know I'm right."

"I know you're an ass."

Dean shrugged. "Same thing."

Sam rolled his eyes, shoving the backpack at him. "Just help out, would you?"

Sighing dramatically, Dean unzipped the bag, pulling some of the items out. "You sure these candles will work?"

Sam was studying the piece of paper. "I checked five times," Sam said. "They'll work."

"I think we probably could have gotten away with the dollar store ones," Dean pushed, glancing at his brother expectantly. Sammy only had so much patience, and he was pretty sure he'd just used up the last of it.

Sam, however, was decidedly too focused to be annoyed. Which Dean supposed was a good thing, really, but not nearly as fun. "We can't cut any corners, Dean," Sam admonished. "That's what got us here in the first place."

Dean just rolled his eyes and tried to contain his frustration. "Fine," he muttered. "Perfectionist freak."

Sam gave a lopsided grin, revealing one dimple, while his brother continued his preparations.

With a glower, Dean prodded his brother. "You just be sure you know that incantation. I would hate for it not to work because you say tomato and the spirits say tomahto."

"Dude, just worry about the candles."

"And the drums," Dean said with a twinkle in his eyes.

It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "And the drums."

Dean nodded in satisfaction, returning to his task. Sam, for his part, skimmed the verse in his hand again, going over the pronunciations.

Sam was usually the one who handled any kind of recitation, especially when it involved archaic and obscure languages. From an early age, it had always seemed to be a more intelligent aspect of hunting, one that could beat the bad guys without violence or guns.

Plus he was better than Dean at languages. He had taken what minor victories he could get as a child.

"You ready?" Dean asked, looking up from his crouched position on the floor. The candles were burning, their sweet incense filling the air and the shadows flickering across the shelves.

Sam took a deep breath. "As I'll ever be."

"Let's do this."

And with that, Dean began to pound, a slightly irregular and awkward beat. Sam listened, letting it find its groove, before he started to speak.

Sam was only two lines in when the temperature dropped and the air began to move. Sam hesitated, and Dean's rhythm stuttered, but they both forged on, even as a wind slowly picked up, teasing their hair and clothes.

The wind rose with the timbre of Sam's voice. Dean kept his beat strong and purposeful, and both boys could feel the spirits as they coalesced into the atmosphere.

Lights flickered, candles wavered. Then there were flashes, hazy patches of lightness that spotted the darkness. They were here.

Sam opened his mouth, standing cautiously, eyeing the forming spirits as they coalesced. Dean steadily thrummed the drum, willing the candle to not blow out with the growing wind in the warehouse. But before Sam could speak, another voice shattered the room.

"Freeze, right there!"

Dean's drumming cut off and Sam's jaw hung open as they both turned their eyes to the source of the voice. There, on the periphery of the warehouse, was a pair of cops to their left. In their concentration and the noise, the brothers hadn't even heard their approach.

The cops, for their part, looked angry, maybe scared, and they both had their guns drawn. One was middle aged and wiry, his gray hair thin on his head. The younger one was somewhat pudgy, his chubby fingers looking out of place on the trigger.

"Hands where we can see them!" the younger one ordered, in a voice that held a note of fear.

"Let's not be too hasty now," Dean said, glancing nervously at the spirits.

"We know what you're trying to do," the older one said, shifting nervously as he looked at the spirits.

Dean nearly laughed. "Then you'll know we need to finish."

"You need to step away from that right now," the older ordered again.

"And tell us how to shut down the projections," the younger added.

Neither Sam nor Dean had moved from their spots, both still poised and ready to finish the ritual. They exchanged a terse nod before Sam looked back at the cops, silently willing his brother to follow his lead. "They're not projections," Sam said carefully. "They're spirits. We're trying to finish something that went wrong. Just give us five minutes and then we'll go with you."

Dean glared at his brother, but Sam ignored him, keeping his wide and honest eyes on the cops.

The younger one snorted. "We know all about you," he said. "The FBI is on its way here."

Dean's heart skipped a beat, but Sam remained stoic. "Just let us—"

The older one raised his aim higher, positioning it clearly at Sam. "You need to drop your things now, and come with us."

Sam didn't flinch. Dean tensed, ready to spring to action should the situation warrant it.

The spirits were glowing brightly now, throbbing with light, ebbing closely to the cops in the forms of various animals.

"What the hell?" the younger said, his voice shaking now. "Stu, what is this crap?"

The older flinched, blinking nervously as a bead of sweat trickled down his neck. "Cut the crap out, now," he yelled, his voice breaking.

Sam's patience had run out. Dean saw him hesitate, then knew instinctively what Sam was going to do. Duck and find cover, just long enough to finish before this vision quest went even farther south. There was enough distance between them and the cops, and an outcropping of boxes lurked just behind them. With the spirits growing in intensity and number, they could definitely swing it.

But before they could act, a roar sounded from above, shaking the entire building with a surprisingly force. Dean stumbled, catching the shelves as support. The candle fell over and was snuffed out, and Sam struggled to maintain his footing.

They knew what it was, knew what it had to be, but that didn't stop them from looking, anyway.

From the mix of spirits, lurked a form much more solid.

It looked vaguely human in form, bulky and filled out, but the details were not human. From the meaty fingers, long, thick claws protruded, curving at the ends, glinting like knives in the dim light. Similar claws could be seen on the feet, growing obscenely from the shoeless figure.

It was a man, that much was sure, and though the clothes looked stretched, he was still clad in a t-shirt and jeans. But the garments looked dirty, stained with blood and sediment.

It was the face, though, that was truly disturbing. His nose had thickened and elongated, becoming a snout that accentuated the mouth. Even from a distance, the massive teeth were visible, jutting grotesquely from the snarling mouth. Though it was not altogether covered in hair, the face sported a shaggy beard, enhanced by weeks of poor upkeep.

It was Michael—though the boy Dean and Sam had seen in the pictures was barely recognizable. All hints of compassion and good nature were lost in the slanted eyes that narrowed in on its prey.

As Michael stalked forward, the other spirits drew back, seemingly fearful of the thing that Michael was becoming. Unrest picked up in the warehouse, shuddering the shelves and contents with a growing wind.

Whatever had happened, Michael had lost complete control. The puma had taken over.

"Man, why couldn't it have been a beaver spirit or something that possessed him," Dean moaned.

Sam's eyes were wide and he swallowed. He raised the paper to finish the ritual, but before he could speak, the entity sprang forward with enough force to bring crates and boxes with it as it pounced straight at the brothers.

They had less than a second to react, and both dove out of the way, rolling hard on the ground as the puma thumped between them. Its lips curled in a visceral smile as it eyed its prey. Dean was fumbling for his gun and Sam was muttering the words to the recitation as best he could.

The noise ratcheted up a notch. The other spirits were still at bay, wafting around in the growing haze. Michael's entity pulled like a whirlpool, garnering all the power and force of the room to him, sending the contents in disarray.

Dean got off a shot, then two, and Sam ducked a flying box as it crashed to the wall above his head.

As paper rained down on him, suddenly Sam realized just how easy it was to lose control. Michael just wasn't some amateur who had made a sloppy mistake. No, the forces at play during a vision quest were volatile, dangerous, and overwhelming. Any deviance from the script could foul the whole thing up with devastating results.

Results he was learning first hand just now.

The other spirits were dwarfed by the puma's overbearing presence. It was moving viciously now, leaping around the room.

With a powerful leap, it clipped Dean, who flew back hard into a shelving unit that tipped backwards with the force.

Panicked, Sam dropped his paper, abandoning the ritual. The key was escape now.

The puma was still on the move. It turned its hungry eyes on the cops, both of whom were scrambling in terror toward the door. All their boasts of guns and backup were worthless now, and Sam struggled to move in the growing din.

Sam tried to yell, to scream a warning, but both cops saw it coming. The older one ducked as the puma charged him, catching the claws painfully on his back before going down.

Dean was out—Sam was pretty sure it was just a temporary thing, but he was strewn amid a mess of boxes, all stained red and scattered. The puma had only landed a glancing blow, but it did make Dean vulnerable.

The puma had the younger cop in its sights and was bearing down with a growl that seemed to rumble the building even more.

He was running out of options and time.

Sam didn't think. He just acted. People were in danger—maybe not complete innocents, but their ignorance made them innocent enough to save.

Mustering his strength, he sprinted against the wind, running at full speed toward the puma. He had to get there in time, had to stop it from devouring the terrified cop.

He was nearly on it when he realized that he didn't have a plan of attack, didn't even know what he was doing. But he was screaming and with a burst of adrenaline that blinded his logic, he leaped onto the puma, feeling a burst of energy jolt through him as he came into contact with the part human, part spirit. Nonetheless, he was able to make contact with the corporeal portion of the entity, sending them both rolling hard onto the floor.

The impact was jarring, and Sam struggled to regain his sense of equilibrium. By the time he'd blinked his mind clear, the puma was looming over him, a gleam of hunger and victory in its eyes.

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