Devastation and Reform 14/15

[faye_dartmouth]

 

A/N: Almost done with this one! Hopefully the action here is satisfactory because this is kind of the climax of the this whole thing. Hopefully the boys come through it in one piece... :)  Previous parts here.

-o-

Chapter Fourteen

Sam didn't really have a plan.

Sure, he knew he was going to the warehouse to finish the ritual and to make sure that nothing bad (well, worse) happened to Dean. But beyond that, he wasn't really sure what to expect. He knew the FBI would be there and that all he had to arm himself was salt and candles.

He could barely even see straight for that matter and he ended up in the warehouse parking lot without any real memory of how he'd gotten there.

Shaking himself, he tried to remember how long he'd been sitting there. The car was foreign to him and his entire body tingled. The thought hurt too much to process and he let it go. Which was how he started thinking about what he was going to do next.

Hence the realization that he didn't really have a plan. He may have had one at some point (he just couldn't remember that far back), but if he did, it was gone now.

The plan was luckier than he was. It was already out of its probably ill-conceived misery while Sam was left to suffer through whatever came next. He'd go in, plan or no plan, which really, in the end, was all the plan a Winchester had.

If he'd ever doubted whether the years of training and life on the hunt had truly sunk in, he didn't need to anymore. His father might even be proud to see him like this: dedicated, focused, trained. He had no energy, nothing resembling a real strategy, but he was moving, going ahead for the sake of family, just like Dean and Dad had always told him.

It was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done.

Sighing, he pushed open the door. He staggered a little getting out of the car, and his shoulder protested under the slight strain of his pack.

Blinking wearily, he squinted in the dark at the massive hulk of the warehouse. The lights were off—it was undoubtedly abandoned, probably a trap waiting to snap. Right on him.

Grimly, he took a step forward, sucking in a hard breath to contain the stab of pain. He should have swiped some real painkillers before he broke loose. The Tylenol wasn't cutting it.

It was irrelevant though, and he breathed through it, willing his eyes to focus by sheer willpower. There wasn't anything he wouldn't endure for Dean.

That thought motivating him, he slammed the door shut, and headed in.

-o-

They were so screwed.

Sam was on the run, which was bad enough, and given what little Dean knew about Sam's physical state, the kid probably had more stitches in him than a baseball. Dean was handcuffed to a chair with the only person in sight being a cranky FBI agent. There was a puma spirit running around killing people, and Dean was right in the middle of it.

Worse, Sam was probably a little incoherent, so any idiotic plan his brother hatched would be half-assed at best, and Dean was in no position to even help him.

He knew his brother was good—Sam was the best, just as good as him, maybe even better sometimes, but Sam was alone and he was hurt—his brother couldn't have recovered completely from his wounds from the last time they were here. And no matter how well trained, injury had a way of slowing one down just enough, of making one just a little less stealthy, not to mention muddying one's ability to think clearly.

While Dean more than welcomed Sam's help, he'd have to kick the kid's butt if he got himself arrested. He couldn't even consider the worst case scenario.

Henricksen had taken up station next to him again, ever alert, his hand checking his gun every so often. The glances he gave Dean were eager, now, tinged with anticipation.

Yet he didn't say a word. He was silent, in full-on stakeout mode.

Part of Dean was tempted to make conversation, to at least pass the time, but the looks Henricksen gave him were deadly, and Dean didn't really want to make the man any angrier than he already seemed to be. He didn't so much care what the guy would do to him—but if Sam was going to show up, he didn't really want to put the Fed in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of mood.

And Sam was going to show up. That was exactly the kind of stupid thing a Winchester would do. Sam may have been the smart one in the family, but he was as stubbornly loyal as the rest of them.

On the bright side, Dean's entire body was feeling numb—they'd been there for hours already, so maybe the agent's senses were getting a bit dulled as well. Anything to help give Sam an edge would be a good thing in Dean's book.

There, in the shadows—there was the slightest flicker of movement. Dean tensed imperceptibly, eyes trained in the darkness. Then it came again. Someone was moving around the edges of the room, working his way toward the far end of the warehouse. To exactly where the ritual had started the first time.

It was Sam. It had to be Sam. Dean knew it, could practically sense it.

Unfortunately, the agent seemed to sense it as well. He straightened, lifting his coat to show Dean his gun again before putting a finger silently to his lips.

Dean took the hint begrudgingly, scowling as Henricksen moved deeper into the shadow, taking up a station behind Dean.

There was a mixture of relief and disappointment. Sam was there, Sam had come—for him, to finish the job, he wasn't sure which—but his brother was well enough to come up with a plan and execute it and part of Dean couldn't help but be proud of the kid. Because he looked awful—even from a distance, Sam still looked pale and bruised, and Dean could just make out the lumps of bandages beneath his clothes. How Sam was even on his feet seemed to be a monumental feat in and of itself.

Yet for every ounce of pride, Dean felt a ton of fear. Sam was hurt and without backup. His reaction time would be shot to hell, and Dean would be surprised if Sam would even stand up long enough to complete the thing. Worse yet, Sam might not be alert enough to watch for Henricksen and the puma, let alone handle both if confronted.

Dean wasn't sure what worried him more: Henricksen's trap or the summoning of the puma. Either way, his injured little brother was walking right into both of them.

He tugged absently at his bonds, hoping to find a slackening, some kind of opening he could exploit. Sitting there in silence went against every brotherly instinct he had.

He didn't have much of a choice. Right behind him, Henricksen waited, silent and calm. Sam stumbled once, throwing out a hand to brace himself, and Henricksen's hand tightened around his gun. Dean tensed, wanting to warn his brother. But the agent’s gun was far too accurate, and he couldn’t take the chance of Sam bolting and Henricksen opening fire.

Sam steadied himself and paused, not moving beyond the shadows. Even in the dimness, Dean knew what Sam was preparing to do.

He was lighting candles, setting up the herbs. He was finishing the ritual.

He could feel Henricksen's body shift, still rigid with anticipation as he waited for some sign, the ideal moment to move in on his kid brother. Dean wasn't sure what he was waiting for--probably for Sam to do something incriminating, to catch him red-handed and make another easy case for himself.

Sam, for his part, was now surrounded by a soft flickering glow.

Then Dean heard it. The chanting was quiet, nearly inaudible, but it rose gently to his ears, filling the silent warehouse and Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could stop this, wishing he could do something. He needed to warn Sam, to help him--get away from Henricksen or the puma or whichever threatened him first.

It was then that Henricksen moved, fast and stealthily, moving beyond Dean, gun pulled and trained. Bursting into the light, Henricksen charged Sam fast and furious. "FBI! Freeze!"

It was like something out of a bad cop flick, and Dean cringed, jerking his arms in earnest now.

Sam, for his part, blinked up, not moving from his perch. His eyes danced around the room, landing heavily on Dean, but his expression didn't waver. For his part, Dean squinted, breathing heavy, and he could see his brother was sweating—badly, which didn't bode well for his physical well-being.

"Don't move," Henricksen ordered, locking his eyes and his gun on Sam.

"Look," Sam said, his voice slow and trying to be steady. His eyes flickered to where Dean was, and there was recognition, but Sam's countenance did not waver. His hands were in front of him, the rite still firmly in his grip. "You have to let me finish this."

"I don't have to let you do anything," Henricksen said. "You broke out of the hospital last night."

Sam swallowed convulsively and Dean could see his brother twitch nervously. "I had to come finish this."

"You mean killing the girl last night?"

There was no sign of shock on his brother's face, and Dean knew his brother had done his research. Some things never changed, not even due to blood loss.

"I didn’t kill her, but I’m going to stop what did," Sam said evenly, but his voice cracked a little.

"Put it down," Henricksen ordered.

Sam’s fingers were gripping the paper so tightly that Dean could see his knuckles turning white even through the dimness.

Sam tilted his head, his eyes looking almost apologetic, as he sunk back into a shadow and the reading started again.

"I told you to drop it!" Henricksen yelled this time, and Dean flinched at the intensity of his voice.

He was sure of a couple of things. First, Sam wasn’t going to back down. Not now. Not when they were so close. Not when it was already started, and all their lives were at stake. Second, he knew that Henricksen wasn’t messing around. The man wasn’t exactly trigger happy, but he was damned determined, and his patience had been pushed to the brink.

If something didn’t intervene between the two of them, Sam would be dead, and that simply wasn’t an option.

Frantic, Dean began pulling at his restraints again in earnest. He needed to do something—anything. Henricksen was yelling, getting closer to Sam, and his brother’s voice was hitching with exhaustion, but not slowing.

Dean was so focused at tugging on the handcuffs that he barely felt the breeze. He was so intent on the conversation between his brother and Henricksen that he barely heard the growing whispers.

The soft flutter was just enough though, and he jerked his head up.

Just how far had Sam gotten?

Something flickered to his left and he turned his head. Apparently far enough.

The spirits were lurking, loitering, moving closer.

Dean looked again toward his brother, still holding the ritual, still pleading with Henricksen. The agent's aim had not wavered.

Cursing, Dean pulled again—hard, jarring the chair.

The breeze picked up.

"It's starting," he heard Sam say. "Can't you see it's starting?"

Sam sounded a bit hysterical, which wouldn't help his cause any, but Dean understood. Sam was trying to do the right thing, and Henricksen seemed to be hell-bent on getting them all killed.

"What's starting?" Henricksen shot back.

Looking to the side again, the spirits were closer, firmer, and the sound was growing. A lid whipped off the top of a box sending paper flying.

This was bad, this was very bad. The puma was coming—soon—and Henricksen still didn't get it. They needed to move—now.

Dean may have been tied to a chair, but that didn't mean he was useless. With the puma coming, one of them needed to finish the ritual. Sam had the paper; Sam needed to do it. But Henricksen was going to plug him full of holes if things kept going south, which wasn't ideal on any level. One, no one was ever going to shoot his little brother if he could help it, and, two, shooting Sam would be a death sentence for all of them.

So Dean had to get the gun trained on himself.

What tools did have? His oh-so-charming personality.

He thumped loudly, pulling the cuffs against the chair purposefully to maximize the sound. "Hey, Victor, old buddy, old pal," he said. "You mind loosening these a bit? It's making my not-so-stealthy escape a little difficult."

As predicted, Henricksen's eyes flashed to him, and Dean met them with his own. The confusion and uncertainty on Henricksen's face was foreign, out of place. The agent had always seemed so in control, but Dean knew this situation was rapidly slipping into unknown territory for the man. Had Henricksen not been so vindictive in his pursuit, Dean might have felt sorry for him.

"Seriously, man," Dean said. "I'd like to be up and about before things really start flying. If it makes you feel any better, I won’t try to escape until after we save your ass."

As if on cue, a box tipped over, sending papers swirling in the air. The whispers grew in intensity.

Henricksen's eyes went wide as he looked up at the papers, then wider still as he squinted toward the approaching spirits. Tentative, he moved forward. "What the hell are you two trying to pull?"

"I told you," Dean snapped. "We're not pulling anything. Now let me go so we can get this done."

Over the agent's shoulder, Dean could make out his brother's slouched form, holding the paper, his lips moving now. His kid brother was reading, rapid and soft in the growing din.

The older man hesitated, his eyes flickering between Dean and Sam. Suddenly, Henricksen's aim jerked back toward Sam. The agent was flustered, clearly not comfortable with this turn of events. "Put it down, now," Henricksen ordered. "And call off your special effects before I start firing."

The threat was real, and Dean knew it, but Sam didn't listen, or couldn't hear.

The shelves trembled, spilling contents, and Dean narrowly avoided being squashed by a box of Xerox paper.

Henricksen flinched, ducking a flying box lid, but his gun remained steady, still taut in his hand, still focused.

There was a distant roar, and Dean knew things were about to get a whole lot worse.

-o-

Sam was numb--from fear or pain or desperation, he wasn't sure, but it was making things difficult. Words tumbled from Sam's lips, fast and garbled, but close enough. He was better with Latin—so much better with Latin--and the ancient Native American dialect was too much like speaking Chinese or Indian, or something else foreign to the American tongue.

He could feel the room vibrating; the spirits were getting close, closer by the minute.

Distantly, he heard Dean talking, heard Henricksen talking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the gun, primed and trained on him.

He didn't care.

The man would just have to shoot him to make him stop. He'd already been here once. He'd already stopped once, and people had died because of it. This time he wasn't going to stop at anything—not when his brother's life depended on it. He could only hope that Henricksen's sense of logic was stronger than his inherent sense of archaic and oversimplified duty.

Sam was in the zone, and he knew it. The world was fading around him, even as he knew the ritual picked up and was building to a breaking point. Normally he'd be more diplomatic; normally he'd be more afraid. This time, he simply didn't have the time or the energy.

It was everything he could do to just keep reading, and that was that.

Whatever threat Henricksen posed, whatever threat was posed to Henricksen—he was counting on Dean to take care of that much.

There was a gunshot and a screech, a thump and a growl, but Sam didn't let himself react, didn't let himself do anything except keep on reading.

-o-

Henricksen saw the puma before Dean did.

The agent's face went slack, his jaw open, his eyes wide as he stared at something behind Dean.

Dean cringed, but swiveled his head to look, even though he knew what that something was. Turned, the older brother found himself nearly face to face with the beast. He barely had time to curse before the thing swiped at him, hard and long across his back.

It hit mostly chair, though, and he went tumbling, the metal torn by the vicious claws. He didn't want to think about how strong the thing had to be to cut metal with a single slice, but it didn't matter. Not right then anyway.

Remarkably, though it had cleaved the chair, he was still intact. To add to his good fortune, his cuffs were broken, severed in two.

He was free.

Rolling, he pushed himself up on his numb hands, looking up in time to see the puma advancing on Henricksen.

The agent fired once, a desperate shot as the thing lunged in the air. The puma bounced off a wall before trying to pounce on him, easily dodging the bullet. Henricksen yelped, sliding out the way, the claws catching his arm. It was a glancing blow, but enough to jar the gun loose, and send him tumbling.

A weakness the puma would exploit.

It would be just in a sense; Dean had told him so, and it would guarantee him a tried and true escape route.

But he glanced at Sam, who was listing heavily, reading still, and knew what he had to do.

Surging ahead, he flailed his hands out, yelling, "Hey! Cat boy! Over here!"

The puma turned mid-strike, bounding off a stack of boxes back toward Dean, leaving the trembling agent where he’d fallen. Swallowing reflexively, Dean realized he probably should have thought this plan through a little better before he’d started it.

A growl escaped the puma’s lips as he charged him. For a moment, Dean was frozen, understanding the panicked feeling of a deer in the headlights. This thing was stronger than he was; it might even be as smart. It was ferocious as hell and its appetite was only slightly less voracious than its sense of territory.

Dean, for his part, was unarmed. Completely. Not that Sam would look kindly on killing it anyway—killing the puma equated to killing Michael. Though the kid’s misguided quest had gotten them all in this mess, he was still a kid, and they still wanted to save him.

Not at the expense of their own lives though.

As the puma neared enough to take a swipe, Dean dove out the way, rolling expertly to the side. The puma, surprised, couldn’t stop its momentum and plowed ahead. It was just a momentary pause, but it was enough for Dean to regroup.

On instinct, Dean looked for a weapon—something, anything. He came up with nothing, and he barely found his feet before the puma pounced again.

It was closer this time, close enough to feel the puma's rancid breath hot on his skin. He had lost track of Henricksen; he'd even lost track of Sam, which was something that never made him comfortable. He turned, hoping to gauge the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother.

Sam was still reading—he had to still be reading. He didn’t know what the hell Henricksen was doing, if the agent had even gotten his crap together enough to be of any use. Maybe the man was even smart enough to retrieve his gun—though Dean didn’t want him to kill Michael, he would certainly appreciate the backup.

The turn, however, cost him precious seconds. Instinctively, he moved to twist away again, but this time he was too slow. The puma rammed into him, catching him fully in the torso. There was no scrape of claws, just hard, solid contact before he was airborne. He felt his body hit the wall with a force that surprised him, and the world blinked out.

-o-

It was the sound of his brother's cry that finally made him stop.

The cry was pained and truncated, and that couldn't be good.

He looked up in time to see Dean hit hard against a wall, crashing to the floor before sprawling, limp.

Logically, he needed to finish the ritual; that was the best way to save Dean. The only way to really be sure. But the puma was stalking his brother, moving toward him, and Sam couldn't just stand there.

He yelled, his voice strained with desperation, nearly tripping as he tried to move on legs that were too weak to run.

The puma was strutting, proud and overconfident, because it had never failed to get its quarry before. That was a trend Sam wanted to end. Needed to end.

His legs moved, but not fast enough, and he fell to all fours, the ritual still tightly clasped within his clammy hands.

A gunshot tore into his hearing and he looked up, squinting and saw Henricksen with his gun trembling in his grasp.

The beast snarled and turned on him, a murderous rage in its eyes. Sam could see then that the shot hadn't missed entirely—the bullet had winged it—or rather winged Michael because blood seeped from an all too real wound on its arm.

It wasn't enough, though. Not to stop it. The bullet wound might have downed Michael were the boy himself; but it only made the puma mad.

Part of Sam was relieved—the gunshot had effectively taken the puma's attention off his brother, which had been Sam's intent since the beginning. The other part of Sam realized that this turn of events didn’t bode well for the well-intentioned FBI agent.

It was hard to see—he wasn’t sure when his vision had gotten so shoddy, but the darkness of the room only enhanced his inability to clearly make out objects and people. But he didn’t need to see the details to know what was happening.

Despite the shot Henricksen had gotten off, the agent was frozen in place now, too shocked to make a move as the puma charge toward him. The attack was swift, starting with a glancing swipe that cuffed the man’s arm.

His lips numb, Sam mumbled the ritual, knowing he needed to finish, but knowing he needed to save the agent first. If Henricksen died, so did all their chances of a clear future. They might escape, but the death of an FBI agent would never go unnoticed. The search for them would be stepped up tenfold, and Sam was pretty sure there’d be no more deals, no more leniency.

The puma was circling, but Henricksen was moving now, holding his arm with his good hand and stumbling away. Sam couldn’t see the gun anymore—the man must have lost it in the scuffle.

Gathering his energy, Sam kept the paper in front of him, chanting louder, harder as he began to move.

His steps were unsteady but purposeful, and Sam could feel his heart swelling in his chest. This was it—his only chance. The timing would be crucial. Any failure would prove deadly for all of them.

Louder and faster, Sam broke into a job and screamed the recitation.

Suddenly the puma flickered, once—just briefly. But enough.

Sam’s hope grew and he was close enough to see the puma look up and pin him in its gaze. The utter rage in its eyes was hampered by a growing realization of what Sam was trying to do.

Raising its lip, the puma revealed a feral snarl. Abandoning Henricksen, it locked its sites on a new prey, a more dangerous prey. Sam was out to destroy it, and it was pretty clear that the puma wasn't about to just let that happen.

Focused again, Sam sped up, his words flying, and he was so intent that he didn’t see the puma until it plowed into him, knocking him clean off his feet and sent him skidding across the ground.

The hit was nearly devastating, and the impact blinded him with an eclipsing pain that took his breath and his awareness for one suspended moment. But he didn’t waver—he couldn’t waver. He couldn’t see anything but the paper in front of him. He couldn’t feel the weight of the puma as it held him down. Sam didn’t spare it a glance or a thought, not even as the growl it emitted shook his body to the core.

The hot breath was on his face and he could feel its pulse throb with an eerie realness.

It was ready to kill him, and this time it would have no one to stop it. Dean was out for the count, and he didn’t know where Henricksen was or what the man was doing. It was just Sam and the puma, and Sam was injured, hurt, and the puma had the strength of the supernatural on its side.

But Sam knew something it didn’t.

Sam only had one line left.

As the jaws leaned down, open and large, he spat the words, hard and determined.

Breathless, he looked up, and he saw the visage above him fade in and out, the surprise evident on both the human and the cat. Startled, the entity fell back, tripping off of Sam to the side. One paw-like hand went to its chest in a way so very human.

It flickered again, slower this time, and when Sam blinked, he saw that the puma was gone.

It was just a boy, one Sam had seen in pictures and had heard about from his family. A boy with a mangy head of hair and a bloody arm. His eyes were wide and he was breathing heavily before his eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp, falling to the floor without so much as a sound.

Sam blinked again, and the world seemed hazier than before. He realized he was sprawled on the floor. Flicking his eyes to the side, he saw the still form of his brother. He didn't even think about it.

The effort was draining, but he barely even felt it as he dragged himself to his knees and crawled to his brother's side. On his knees next to his brother, he reached down to take a pulse, but his fingers were shaking so badly that he couldn't press firmly onto Dean's neck. Tears welled in his eyes as panic set in. The irrationality of it did not escape Sam, but he wasn't sure he cared. He'd just risked everything—to save Dean, and he couldn't even get his crap together long enough to see if his brother was alive.

Through his fading vision, he realized he could see the rise and fall of Dean's chest, and that would have to be enough. With an exhaustion suddenly too pervasive to ignore, Sam collapsed onto his brother, who did not so much as grunt with the contact. He should be worried about that, but with his head on Dean's chest, he could make out the sound of his brother's heart over the roaring of pain in his head.

Sam was panting, his head swimming, but he managed to roll himself over to get a better view of the damage to the warehouse. His entire body felt numb and weary and he didn't even have the strength to move. The written ritual lay just beyond his grasp and the candles were smoldering stumps. Papers still floated to the ground, and Sam could feel Dean's chest rising and falling steadily beneath him.

He figured he should get up, shouldn't probably be hindering his brother's breathing, but the sign of his brother's life was so encouraging. Besides, he really didn't think he had the ability to move anymore.

He strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to see. Michael's form was still unmoving where he had fallen and Sam couldn't see if he was breathing or not. He had no idea what the after effects of the vision quest would be, what injuries he had sustained from being merged with the puma for so long.

But it was over. It was finally over. For better or for worse, it was over.

Then he saw Henricksen rising shakily to his feet. Sam had almost forgotten about him. The agent was bleeding, a trail of blood trickling down the side of his face, and he was holding his gun.

Sam had a momentary thought to flee, to try to grab Dean and run, but the thought died before it really took hold. He made it to a sitting position somehow, but there was nowhere to go, not that he could get there if he wanted to.

Defeated, he slumped back against Dean as Henricksen limped over to him.

"Check Michael," he said.

Henricksen looked confused. "Who?"

"Michael," Sam said again, hoping the agent would figure it out.

Henricksen cast a glance at the fallen figure. "It's a kid." The simple statement hung heavy with shock and disbelief.

"Yeah," Sam said between gasps. "His name's Michael."

"But...what I saw...," Henricksen stammered, his mouth hanging open.

"The puma."

"But it's a kid."

Sam just shook his head, trying to find the energy to explain. "He was...possessed...," Sam tried. "Merged with a spirit."

Henricksen shook his head. "How is that possible?"

Sam actually wanted to laugh at that. "Would you believe me...if I told you?" he rasped.

Henricksen just stared, blankly.

A cough ripped through Sam and when he was done, he sagged to the floor, deflating. "If you're still going to handcuff us," Sam continued between gasps. "You can do it now."

Before Henricksen could reply, Sam's vision dimmed completely, and he went limp on his brother's chest.

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