A/N: Last Chapter - I really hope you guys enjoy! I'm starting to worry by the lack of reviews to the last chapter, have I missed the mark somewhere along the line?
Choices: Chapter 8 (Last Chapter)
Dean pulled his jacket on with a grimace. It had been eight days since he was beat to hell by his, well, mind, and though he could now move without gasping, there was still a lingering throb in his ribs and chest that flared up every time he did move, as if warning him to take it easy, take it slow. His body had taken enough beating in the past to know that Dean's version of rest was a day in front of the T.V before hurrying after the next demon, the next potential injury. So his ribs remained tender – a stubborn reminder that it takes time to heal.
"What are you doing?"
Dean turned to find Sam standing in the doorway, watching him with wide eyes. "Playing ping pong. What does it look like?"
Sam stepped further into the room, watching Dean fix his collar. Dean's movements were slow, careful. "Shouldn't the nurse be helping you with that?"
Dean paused to give Sam a look that screamed: Are you serious? Do I look five? He then sat on the bed and lifted his leg onto its edge, gritting his teeth as he bent forward and starting tying his laces. "Shouldn't you be knocking when a door's closed?" Dean asked, trying to ignore how fucking difficult this one little task was. "Had you barged in a few minutes earlier, you'd have caught me dressing a different part. And that, that would've been awkward."
"Thank god for good timing," Sam muttered, watching Dean's progress with a frown. He was itching to help, but knew Dean would be unforgivably insulted if he did. Yeah, his brother's logic was…unique. He'd forgive you shooting him, but would hold a grudge if you tried to help him afterwards.
Dean finally finished tying the laces, lowering his legs back to the floor. He leaned back and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking. God, he hated this. He hated being vulnerable to the whims of a broken body. He knew of only one thing that'd make him feel better – a good ass kicking. "Did you find where your girlfriend's hiding the fog?"
Sam took a deep breath. "Yeah, I did actually."
Dean straightened. "I need to give that squishy thing between your ears a bit more credit. How'd you find it?"
Sam scratched his head. "Um…well, a bunch of 15 year old girls told me, actually."
Dean smirked. "Or maybe not. So where is it?"
Sam ran his hands through his hair. "A house. She has it trapped in a house."
"Huh. Well dad said it would be big. A house is big. Okay, so what? It doesn't know how to open a door and fly, or, you know, float on out?"
"No, Dean," Sam said, his frustration at the whole situation breaking through his voice. "It's trapped there in the walls, in the actual structure. It's…melded with the damn house."
Dean frowned. "So, we just burn it down, what's got your panties all twisted?"
"It's not just some abandoned building up in the forest. It's someone's home. An innocent family's home. Lots of kids, and toys and Playstations and a freakin' pet gerbil!"
Dean's eyes widened and his mouth slid open. "Oh you're kidding me? You're not kidding me? Jesus. Could this week get any worse?"
Sam sunk into the chair he'd been using for the past week. "What are we meant to do?"
Dean stood up and starting pacing in Sam's place, his mind racing. "Another way, one that doesn't involve any actual burning or, you know, pulverizing."
Sam threw up a hand. "Dad didn't say there were any alternative ways to get rid of it, and I can't find any lore about the thing."
Dean balled his hands into fists. "What a bitch! You know why she chose that house, right? Because of the kids. Her…Vulcan mind meld thing told her we have, you know, soft spots for the little brats."
San smiled. "Yeah, you do, don't you?"
Dean shot him a glare. "I said we." He sat down on the edge of the bed, absently rubbing his ribs. "Were any of the first five victims connected to that house?"
"Um, yeah, one used to babysit there."
Dean nodded slowly, his eyes staring distantly as he absorbed this information. He looked up at Sam. "Let's hope they have insurance."
"What?" Sam spluttered. "We're really going to burn it down?"
Dean shrugged. "No choice. Meg chose that house for a reason, to use that family as leverage. If we leave this town with the V-Vee – whatever the fuck it is – if we leave it under her control, what's stopping her from killing those kids to draw us back?" Dean held up his hands, weighing their choices. "Lives…house…lives…house. I'm betting they'd appreciate their lives more." Dean looked at Sam, silently imploring with him not to argue. He didn't think he could handle the weight of this decision on his own, his mind involuntarily flashing back to their Kansas home engulfed by loud orange flames.
Sam nodded. "Okay," he said gently. He stood up and felt his pockets for his phone. "I'll call them now, say we need to evacuate the house for the night."
"Wait." Dean grabbed his wallet from the night table and pulled out one of their credit cards. He chucked it to Sam. "There's a production of The Lion King playing in the Bourke theatre. Buy the family tickets and say they've won 'em or something."
Sam picked up the credit card and grinned.
Dean caught the look and rolled his eyes. "Dude, we're about to torch their house. The least we can do is be nice about it."
Sam chuckled and went to make the call.
Sam pulled the Impala up alongside the house and cut the engine. "Think they're gone by now?" Sam asked, trying to see if there were any shadows moving beyond the curtains.
"Car's gone," Dean pointed out, leaning over Sam to look out the window. "Let's torch this sucker."
Sam hopped out of the Impala and opened the trunk, grabbing a can of oil and some matches. He looked up a few seconds later when the passenger door finally slammed shut. Dean walked towards him stiffly. "Dean," Sam implored, his concern finally breaking through. "Are you sure you're up for this, man?"
Dean yanked the canister from Sam's hands. "Yes, mother, I think I can spill some oil and flick a match, thanks."
Sam sighed and stepped back. "After you, Rambo."
Dean mimicked the move, refusing to be mocked. "After you, Goldilocks."
Sam strode forward, breathing out through his nose to keep from retorting.
They disarmed the alarm system and picked the manual locks with ease. Once inside they began dousing the house in oil. The lights remained off; it was too risky otherwise. Not only might a neighbour grow suspicious, but neither wanted to look at what they were really burning down – photos, toys, furniture, a home. It was better just to think of it as a house, an empty house.
A sudden crash followed by a loud clamber left Sam's ears ringing and he whipped around, alert, squinting through the dark. He relaxed, though, when he heard Dean muttering.
"Ow! Son of a fucker. Who the hell leaves crap in the middle of the floor? Son of a bitch."
Sam couldn't help chuckling. "You okay?" he smirked.
"Shh."
Sam frowned. "I was just -"
"Shh!" Dean flapped his arms, gesturing at Sam to be quiet. He cocked his head to the side and listened. "Do you hear that? It's coming from upstairs." Without waiting for an answer, Dean hurried towards the stairs, limping on the leg he'd banged against the table after slipping on whatever the hell he'd slipped on. Sam quickly followed. Once upstairs, Dean held up his hand for quiet once again. "Hear that?" he whispered.
Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah." It sounded like…mumbling, talking, rustling.
Dean limped over to a door that was half open and peered through it. He visibly sighed and pushed the door the rest of the way open so that Sam could see what was inside: two occupied beds. One of the kids was tossing and turning, mumbling in her sleep. Sam's mouth slid open and he looked at Dean.
"What kind of parents leaves their kids at home when they go frolicking off to a musical? I paid for six tickets, dammit," Dean muttered angrily, moving away from the door so his voice wouldn't wake them.
"Obviously tired parents who needed a break. I can't believe we didn't think of that."
"Son of a flying fuck. Now what?"
"Well curb the swearing for one, we have kids around…Ow." Dea punched him.
"I have an idea," Dean said, but instead of filling Sam in, he moved further down the hall and cupped his hands around his mouth. "FIRE! FIRE!" The last shout ended in a small coughing fit as his chest burned, but Dean grinned when a small stampede met his call. Four children of varying height, all with curly brown hair, came running from their rooms.
"Come on, hurry downstairs, you need to get out of here," Sam played along, gently pushing them forward. He looked over at Dean and shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. Captain Obvious. His brother possessed no subtlety, but it worked well for them.
They quickly followed after the kids, only to find light flooding the downstairs living room with the kids huddled in the middle. "Come on guys, we gotta move," Dean said, trying to keep the urgency in his voice, gesturing emphatically towards the exit.
One the boys put his hand on his hip and glared at Dean defiantly. "There's no fire!"
Dean raised his eyebrows, at a loss for a second. "…Yeah this is."
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
"Okay!" Sam said, jumping in. "Look," he said, turning to the boy. "There isn't one that you can see, but…there will be one, so we have to get you out of here, okay?"
The boy's eyes widened. "You're arsonists?"
"What? No."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Nice one, genius."
"I'm calling the cops!"
"Wait, wait." Sam held out his hands and took a step back to show that they weren't dangerous. He took a deep breath; what the hell… the truth tended to sit better with kids than it did adults, it was worth a try. "Your house is haunted. By this...black mist, I guess you could call it. And it's been hurting people, and the only way to stop it is to…burn your house down. And I'm really sorry that we have to do that, but it's the only way this…mist…will stop hurting people. Can you understand that?"
The boy blinked up at him and then turned to his sister who looked a year or two younger. "These bozos still believe in ghosts."
"Hey!" Dean interjected.
"Okay, look, do you know about those five people who were found, um…" Sam struggled to find a right word, suddenly feeling responsible for what he filled their heads with given they were all just staring up at him, listening.
"Dead? At the end of the forest, yeah? It was on the news," the boy filled in, unfazed.
"Ten year olds watch the news?" Dean asked.
"I'm twelve."
"Ooh," Dean rolled his eyes.
The boy looked Dean up and down, defiance shining in his eyes. "How old are you? 40? And you still believe in the boogeyman?"
"40!"
"Dean," Sam snapped, feeling a headache coming on. He turned back to the boy. "Please, this is your house and of course it's your decision, but think about your brothers and sisters. They're in danger the longer you guys stay here. Believe me, I wish that there was another way but…there isn't."
Sam watched them all for a second, letting that information sink in. He felt…dirty, like he was manipulating these kids, revealing to them a world that they shouldn't have access to. But like Dean had said, they had no choice. A second later, Sam felt something tugging at his pants. He looked down to see the little girl from morning grinnig up at him.
"You're a GIANT." She opened her arms wide. "ROAR."
Sam blinked at her and Dean snorted. Sam looked from Dean to the girl and back, finally resigned to the fact that his speeches about supernatural peril and doing the right thing worked far better on scared women than it did on little not-so-scared kids.
"Let me handle this, bozo." Dean pushed Sam aside. "Hey kid," he said to the boy. "I'll play ya for it. Any Playstation Game you want. You win," he shrugged, "we leave. I win, you leave."
The boy's eyes lit up. "You're on!"
Another voice entered the mix - young and scared - one of the sisters. "Black mist…like…that up there?"
Dean and Sam's heads whipped up to find the same fog from the cave floating along the ceiling. It spiked suddenly and dived for the youngest girl. She screamed. Acting on instinct, forgetting his injuries, Dean dived for the girl, grabbing her a mere second before the black mist collided with the spot where she'd been standing. Dean grit his teeth and shut his eyes against the explosion of pain racking through his chest. But he held the girl close to him, ignoring how heavy her tiny frame felt against his healing ribs. "Come on," he wheezed out, gesturing to the group of screaming children. "Quickly! Move!" With the girl clutching his neck painfully, screaming and crying into his shoulder, and with his arms shaking with the effort to keep her from slipping despite the rivulets of pain shooting up from where her legs were pressed against his ribs, Dean staggered towards the front door.
Sam quickly ushered the rest of the kids forward, keeping a weary eye on the fog floating on top of them. Suddenly, it dived again, but instead of aiming for the kids it wrapped itself around Sam's legs and yanked. Sam fell to the ground with a thud, his breath instantly stolen from him. The fog pulled and Sam found himself sliding across the floor.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, turning at the noise. He lowered the little girl and ran after his brother but stopped short when the girl's piecing scream broke through the ruckus. Dean whipped around to find the fog aiming for her again. He quickly drew out the pistol tucked into his waistband and fired a round of rock salt at the fog. It instantly dissolved and returned to the cloud of fog now dancing and swirling on the ceiling.
"Dean!"
Dean whipped back around just in time to see Sam disappear into a room and the door slam shut.
"Fuck!" Dean turned from the door to the kids, torn. Gritting his teeth, he ran towards the young group and randomly grabbed a hand in each of his, pulling them forward. He yanked at the front door, silently grateful when it opened without resistance. "Hurry, hurry," he said, waving them through the door, glancing back at the room Sam had disappeared into.
"Wait." Dean reached out and stopped the young boy they'd been arguing with mere minutes ago. His young defiance had given way to teary eyes and shaky breath. Glancing back at the door that Sam had disappeared behind, Dean fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the Impala's keys. "Here," he said, holding them out. The kid hesitatingly reached out and wrapped his hand around them. "I want you, hey kid, you with me?" Dean grabbed the kid's shoulder firmly, reassuringly. The boy nodded. "Okay, good. I want you to grab your brothers and sisters and get into my car, it's that one across the street. I want you to lock the doors and stay there until I come get you, okay? Can you do that?" The boy nodded, clutching the keys and straightening his shoulders. "Hey," Dean said, stopping him once more. "Whatever you do, don't try to drive the damn thing, got that?" The boy smiled slightly and nodded again. He looked up at Dean and back at his house before running out onto the lawn where his siblings were waiting. Dean shut the door firmly behind them before turning and rushing after Sam. But he skidded to a stop when a familiar blonde-haired figure stepped out in front of him.
"Damn, you're alive," Meg said, crossing her arms and smiling. She'd planted herself right between Dean and the room that Sam was trapped inside.
"Get out of my way or I swear…" Dean trailed off, his voice lowering menacingly.
"Aw, sorry baby, you've had your turn. Sammy's my pet's new playmate."
The pain in his chest blended with his anger and his vision melted into red until all he could see was her smug face and until all he could feel was the rage. Not really aware of it, without really feeling it, Dean balled his hand in a tight fist, pulled back his arm and swung - aimlessly, mercilessly, unforgivingly - at the bitch in front of him who was trying to hurt his family. He connected with her nose and a loud, sharp crack rang out. The next thing either of them knew, she was flying through the air and colliding with a table, breaking it in half, toppling over the vase of flowers, shattering the framed pictures, scattering the dish of fruit.
Dean unballed his fist and looked and the blood on it, shocked. He looked over at Meg who was just lying there, stunned. "You better pray my brother isn't hurt." Dean ran up to the closed door and twisted the knob, pressing against the door with all his weight. It wouldn't budge. "Sammy!" A cry of pain replied and Dean backed up, eyes widening, heart quickening, fear robbing him of his breath. Not caring that his own injuries were protesting something ferocious, Dean lifted his leg and kicked the door, ignoring the shock waves rushing through his body and shaking his vision. The door dented and creaked, but remained sturdy. "Sam!" Dean called again, ramming his shoulder into the door, again and again.
The black fog had unfurled the instant it had pulled Sam into that room. It had unfurled and Sam had sprung up, turning to escape only to have the door slam shut. It slammed shut just as Sam's head whipped to the side as his cheek began to sizzle; it slammed shut drowning his cry as he fell to his knees and felt his memories perused, invaded, stolen from him. And then Sam gasped as something, something invisible, sliced into his arm.
"You aren't real," Sam mumbled, standing up and backing away from the shadow demons. "You're just memories. I know that now. So, just…leave!" Sam sucked in air as another jagged scratch appeared on the same arm, shredding his sleeve, decorating his arm red. Fear spiked up Sam's spine and he spun around, watching their shadows dance and flicker on the wall. "I don't believe in you," he whispered, watching the shadows' movements carefully, cautiously, fearfully. "I don't believe in you. GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"
Sam felt himself shoved and he flew into the wall, his arms legs and back pinned there by invisible forces as claws tore into him, shredding his shirt, slicing into his chest, his torso, his arms, his face. Sam cried out, shutting his eyes against the pain erupting in his body, searing with every scratch, streaming from him with every drop of blood that splattered onto the walls and floor.
Dean heard Sam cry out again and in an act of unforeseen strength, threw everything he had into that door – every bit of strength, of concern, of protectiveness, everything. Though it still caught him off guard when the wood splintered and he found himself careening through a broken door, his feet catching on the remaining frame so that he landed sprawled on the floor beneath. Dean's hands landed on something wet. Blood. Dean's head whipped up and he froze. Pinned to the wall was Sam, glistening cuts decorating his flesh – a crisscross of red.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, jumping up and rushing forward.
At the sound of his name, Sam looked over at Dean, opening his mouth to say something but rolling his eyes back into his head and falling unconscious instead. Whatever force was pinning him to the wall disappeared and Sam slumped. Dean scrambled forward and caught his brother's limp form, Sam's head and arms falling across Dean's shoulders. Dean tried to support Sam's weight, he really did, but given how beat up his own body was, and the physical effort it had taken him to break through that door, Dean simply had no strength left. His knees buckled and he fall backwards, all of Sam's weight landing on top of him in what felt like the crushing impact of a tidal wave. Dean gasped, suddenly unable to breathe. He clenched his teeth and tried to pry Sam off without hurting Sam in the process, but his fingers were weak and his arms shaking too badly to be of any real use.
Just when his vision began to fade and an unwanted sleep began to cloud his head, he felt Sam stir and quickly jump up when he realized he was crushing his brother. Dean gasped, choking and coughing, greedily gulping in air.
"Oh god, Dean, are you okay?" Sam grabbed Dean's arm and helped pull him into a sitting position.
Dean nodded, waving off Sam's concern. "Just enjoying the whole breathing thing."
Sam took in a shaky breath, looking from his brother to the blood splattered room. His own blood. He used the edge of his shirt to wipe some of it from his eyes, ignoring the sting the fabric caused as it grazed the cuts on his face.
"Are you okay?" Dean asked, watching Sam with concern.
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Just a few new scars to add to my collection."
Dean frowned and moved Sam's face to the side. On his cheek sat that black symbol. "The Vebiel did this? You forgot that it wasn't real again?"
"No, that's the thing," Sam said, looking at Dean in confusion. "I knew it was fake, that it was just the Vebiel dredging up old memories, but that didn't stop those memories from, you know, attacking."
"That doesn't make sense," Dean said, slowly lifting himself from the ground and testing the strength of his legs. "If you don't believe in what it's showing you, its power's gone. I've played Nintendo games with more complicated rules."
Sam hopped up too, his confusion overpowering the stings and throbs pulsating through his body. "But I didn't believe in them; I knew the shadow demons weren't real, that they're in the past."
Dean thought about this for a second before realization dawned and he shut his eyes, laughing hollowly.
"What?"
Dean glanced at his brother, his eyes traveling over the torn clothes and red trails marring his body. "But you believe in the threat. You may not have believed that you were back in that warehouse with the daevas, but the threat of our lives, of the things we hunt, that's real. That's always been real for you."
But before Sam had a chance to absorb this, to respond, he was forced to watch Dean flung across the room by the black fog, Dean's back colliding with the window in a storm of shattered glass.
"Dean!" Sam began to shout, before he too was flung into a wall, connecting with a loud thud as plaster rained on his hair.
Meg flung open the splintered door and walked it, slamming it shut behind her. Blood trickled from her nose and was smeared across her face. Her shoulders were damp and had flower petals plastered to them. She looked at Dean, anger sparking in her eyes. "Payback's a bitch." Under her breath she muttered something in Latin and stretched out her arms. The black fog began swirling around the room, faster and faster, picking up loose leafs of paper and swirling them around with it until all Dean or Sam could see was a black wind spotted with bits of white, and until all they could feel was their hair whipping and their clothes wrapping around them like straightjackets.
Both cried out as a clap resounded and two black arrows shot out from the twirling wind, striking their cheeks, sizzling and burning them, spiking into their thoughts, their memories, pulling, tugging, invading. Choosing. And then Sam cried out and fell to the floor as he felt himself…pulled…felt his mind stretched and forced away from him.
The next thing Sam knew the black mist was gone and he found himself sitting in the Impala, its engine idle, on a dark stretch of road. Beside him sat Dean, free of any bruises, looking as confused as Sam felt. Compared to the twirling, rampaging fog, the quiet felt almost surreal, the still air almost predatory.
"We're back on Route 666! But…this is my memory. You're not meant to be here." Dean looked at Sam and widened his eyes. "Which might explain why you're transparent. Dude, you're a Casper!"
"What?" Sam quickly looked down at himself and got the fright of his life. He could see the passenger seat through his torso! "Holy shit."
"That pretty much sums it up."
"What did she do?" Sam asked, waving his hand in front of him and seeing a distorted version of the Impala staring back through his flesh. "Merged our memories? Put me in yours?"
Dean shrugged. "Beats me."
A pair of headlights suddenly switched on, their beam cutting through the dark and swathing the car with a hazy yellow glow. An engine revved up and black metal glinted in the moonlight.
Dean stared at the phantom truck with growing dread. "Oh, shit."
Sam looked from the truck to Dean, then back at his transparent body. "Dean, this was my dream, the sacred ground doesn't work this time round, she's trying to kill you! Stop thinking about it, it's done, in the past, remember? Don't believe it."
Dean forced his eyes away from the truck, though it was a hard thing to ignore, sitting at the top of the street like that: waiting, taunting, ready. "I don't. You do."
Sam froze. "What?"
Dean glanced back over at the truck, absently grabbing his seatbelt and clipping it into place. "Sam, if there's ever been a time to just listen and not question what I'm telling you, it's now. I've worked out how to resist the Vebiel's power so that's why you're sitting here all see-through like. She needs your beliefs to get my death scene working. So…start thinking about something else! Ignore the truck and ignore me. Laurie – she was a little hottie, right? Go have some dirty thoughts." His eyes kept sliding back to the truck. It was jerking back and forth now, building up its power, getting ready to attack.
Sam followed Dean's gaze, anxiety building up in his own chest. "But…no, I don't Dean! I know this isn't real."
Suddenly Dean's chest and ribs began to throb with pain as his injuries rematerialized. Dean grit his teeth but couldn't help gasping as his cuts and bruises reformed on his face, the damage he'd re-inflicted on himself from barging through that door now intruding on their memories and reminding Sam and him both of the hurt the Vebiel had already caused and was still capable of.
"It works different for you, Sam," Dean wheezed out, trying to ignore the throbbing in his chest and concentrate on Sam, on getting through to him what was happening. "You believe the threat, not the thing. And, baby brother, if you have any issues with me tucked deep down in your subconscious somewhere, now's the time to bring it up. You want a chick flick moment? I'm all ears." The phantom truck revved up challengingly and Dean gripped the steering wheel, his hands slick with sweat, his facing warming up as fear spiked through his chest. "Is there any chance that somewhere deep down there in repressed-Sam-land you believe getting me out of the picture will get you a normal life again? A better chance to find Dad and keep him around this time?"
Sam's eyes widened and he reached out to steady Dean as the injuries started to make him shiver - or was it the fear? - but his hand swiped right through him. "No, Dean, god of course not."
"Spare my feelings, Sammy. I prefer them crushed than my body. I trusted you once on this road, I just need you to be as sure as you were then, okay? Just…stop believing in the danger, in the fucking ghost truck and in the Vebiel's fucking power. Believe that we're, you know, fucking stronger than all that."
They both looked up as the truck revved its engine again and jerked forward, speeding towards them, its headlights growing bigger and brighter by the second. Sam's head whipped from the looming truck to his brother's battered body as Dean watched the truck with fear – untamed, unhidden – shining in his eyes. Sam shut his own eyes and tried to do what Dean asked, tried to forget the fear that clung to him every day, the anger and regret. He prayed for it to be banished, hoped, begged and screamed, knowing that Dean's life depended on him being able to forget the danger, the threat; to forget Jess in flames and his life before college. Forget all of it and believe that this life with Dean, this hunt, wasn't all just about death and terror. He had to see in it what Dean did, had to find something to believe in other than death and revenge.
But when Sam opened his eyes, he was still stuck in that car and Dean was still next to him, the truck mere seconds from collision. Sam looked at his brother, guilt and grief battling in his eyes, robbing him of his voice. And Dean realised Sam couldn't do it, couldn't stop this. But he felt no blame, no regret or anger. Dean smiled at Sam instead, offering his usual grin and shrugging slightly. "In a blaze of glory," he laughed, before the headlights bathed his face yellow and the cars collided.
Sam woke up with a start. He was back in that room; the road and the Impala gone, flung from his mind like an unwanted intruder. Dean. Sam whipped around and froze, slumped on the floor, back to him, unmoving, was Dean. Forgetting how to breathe, how to speak or even think, Sam relied on his instincts to propel him off the floor and over to his brother.
No, no, no, no. Sam chanted the word over and over in his head; a mantra keeping him sane while memories of the car and the sound of metal colliding with metal danced and twirled relentlessly in his head. He reached his brother and gently turned him over. Dean's eyes stared blankly. "Dean?"
Oh god…But then Dean's eyes slid towards him. "Atta boy, Sammy."
"Dean!" Sam half laughed, half cried, grabbing Dean and folding him into a tight hug, shutting his eyes and letting the relief pour through his body. He'd did it, he'd found something in this life to believe in other than death and revenge: His family.
"…you mind Yogi Bear-ing me after my ribs are all reset," Dean wheezed.
Sam instantly let go, laughing happily, hysterically. Feeling slowly returning to his body as his heart slowed down, he stared at Dean and smiled, shaking his head.
Dean smirked, lightly shoving Sam's shoulder. "This doesn't really count as an I-owe-you-my-life thing, you know, since I had to talk you into it and all. Just in case you're getting any let-me-pick-the-music-because-I-saved-your-life ideas."
Sam laughed, picking himself up off the ground and reaching out to help Dean, who still looked a bit pale and shaky from the close call. "You know it's a wonder we're not more emotionally fucked up, given what we do for a living."
Dean grinned, grabbing the wall to steady himself. "Give it time."
A low moan intruded on their conversation. Both looked up to find Meg stirring awake. The force of Sam breaking her hold on his mind so abruptly must have flung her into unconsciousness. An anger unlike anything he'd felt before ripped through Sam's chest. He strode towards Meg and swung his fist, connecting, splitting the skin on her cheek, forcing her back to the ground with a stunned grunt. "I'm a bit sick of these games, Meg," Sam spat. He looked back at Dean. "Pass me that rope."
Dean was still slightly bent over, still clutching the wall for support, but he was looking at Sam with surprise etched onto his face.
"Dean. The rope."
"Right, rope." Dean swiveled around, eyes squinting through the dark. "What rope?"
"The uh…skipping rope."
Dean paused, raising an eyebrow. "You serious?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Just pass it to me."
"You're the boss, Yogi Bear." He clutched his ribs and slowly bent down, snatching the pink rope from the ground and tossing it to Sam.
Sam caught it and used it to bind Meg's arms together. Too stunned to fight or call upon the Vebiel, Meg just rolled her head to the side and glared at him. "This isn't over. You're not going to win this one. You're all going to die at his hands."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied. "And our little dog too?"
"You won't be laughing when your burning on the ceiling like mommy and Jess!"
Sam tightened the knot binding her hands and leaned back, dusting his hands off. "And you won't be laughing when you're burning with this house."
Meg's eyes widened. "You can't do this!"
Sam pat her on her head and grinned. "You and I? I just don't think we're working out. Bye, Meg." He stood up and grabbed one of Dean's arms, helping him out of the room.
A grin that rivaled the Cheshire cat's adorned Dean's face. He looked over at Meg and pointed to Sam, raising his eyebrows. "My brother just grew a pair, what do you know." He addressed Sam: "Must be my influence over this past year."
Sam scoffed. "Come on."
Feeling ridiculously slow and sluggish, they limped their way from the house, supporting each other other's weight. Sam grabbed the front door and pulled it open. Both stopped and frowned at the sight that met them. The four kids, still dressed in their pajamas, where in the process of dragging a heap of their possessions across the front lawn and onto the sidewalk. They'd managed to rescue what looked like all their game consoles and DVDs, some clothes, a skateboard, dolls, and what looked like… the good china.
"Hey!" Dean shouted, getting their attention. "What happened to waiting in the car?"
"Dude, we're not leaving our stuff to be burned," the boy said, defiance back in place.
Dean looked at Sam incredulously. "Is this kid serious? While we were in there getting our asses whooped, they were rescuing their playtoys?"
"And mommy's plates!" the little girl chimed in.
Sam couldn't help laughing. "And their mother's china. Looks that way."
"Huh. Kids after my own heart."
Dean let Sam support him down the porch and then they both turned to look at the house. It sat silent, curtains billowing slightly in the wind. The curtains were purple, you'd never guess the place was housing something so dangerous. But the front door stood open and even from here they could see the black fog coiling around the ceiling emitting a dark shadow, an oily glow.
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the box of matches. He passed them to Dean. Dean took them with a nod of thanks. He slid the box open and pulled out a single match, lighting it with a flick of his wrist. He held it for a second, watching the small flame flicker, feeling the heat lick his fingers. He glanced back at the kids who were sitting around their possessions, watching, waiting. Dean tossed the match into the open door.
The flame caught on the spilt oil immediately, traveling through the house at a greedy, merciless speed. It shot out through the windows, exploding the glass so that it sprinkled down on the front lawn while angry, thick smoke furled out through the windows.
Somewhere inside the house came the sound of another window breaking and then the sound of running footsteps.
"She's gone," Dean needlessly pointed out. He never doubted she would escape.
"Yeah," Sam said. He hadn't tied the rope tight enough for her not to escape.
More windows exploded, flames shooting out, reaching for the boys. Sam and Dean covered their faces, forced back. Smoke was already beginning to smother the lawn and coat their faces and clothing with black soot. The kids grabbed their stuff and ran to the opposite side of the street. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, people began poking their heads out of windows, began running out on the street, mouths gaping, hands wrapping their bathrobes tighter. Car alarms sounded and dogs barked, responding to the commotion.
Dean and Sam stood, watching, shaken, the dancing flames reflected in their eyes and bathing their faces with an orange glow. Neither had expected the house to burn this quickly, with this much force. The sounds of beams collapsing reached their ears and more dust and flames sprang out from the house. The flames seemed to come alive under their very gaze: they waved at the world, danced on the roof, taunting, screaming, set free. And Dean saw reflected in them his mother on the ceiling, his happiness burnt away with Sammy's crib, and Sam saw Jess' body pinned to the ceiling, his future engulfed by the hot pain that was now licking his face as this house burnt stronger.
"We should go," Sam said, hearing the sirens draw closer.
Dean nodded, looking over at the kids who were staring at their house with wide eyes and gaping mouths. To them it was spectacle, a show, but they'd feel the loss soon enough, they'd feel it when they saw a rotted black carcass staring back at them from where their home used to stand.
"We had to," Sam said gently, following his gaze.
"Yeah, I know," Dean said. "Doesn't mean it can't suck."
They headed for their car and hopped in. Dean held his ribs protectively.
"Hey, man, are you okay?" Sam asked.
Was he okay? Dean's mind flashed back to the cave, to Sam's happy smile while with his friends in Stanford, to Sam pulling the trigger without a regret in his eyes, to waking up alone in a hospital bed and finding out his dad had left without a word, and to that glimpse of an arm and white cloth in flames on the ceiling, 22 years ago, before his dad's looming figure had eclipsed the sight of her burning body, baby Sam in his arms. Dean looked at Sam's worried face. "Yeah," he said with those images dancing in his head. He smirked. "You know someone might mistake you for a 50 year old European woman with the amount of worrying you do."
Sam scoffed. "I'm sure, Dean." He started the engine and pulled the car from the curb.
"Seriously, dude, botox is expensive."
"Dean."
"Samantha."
"Oh god."
Dean chuckled and buckled his belt, switching on his music and trying to ignore the flames dancing in the distance.
THE END
Hope you've enjoyed! If you've been reading up until now, please leave me a review and let me know you're out there. It's been great fun and another story will be in the works shortly. Thank you to everyone who's reviwied, you guys rock!