tabaqui | 'The Song of the Treadmill'

'The Song of the Treadmill' - final chapter!! 17/17

Thursday, May 1st, 2008 11:09 pm

Oh, i thought this would *never* come. Sheesh! I can't believe i took so long, writing this final chapter. But! Here it is. I hope it's up to snuff! And that it ends in a satisfying way for everyone who's stuck with me so far.

Thank you, as always,

darkhavens for her excellent polish. And

sweptawaybayou for keeping me going.

Previous parts in tags.
Nochri is Hebrew for 'stranger' or 'foreigner'. Thank you,

marciaelena!

The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?

They stayed at Bobby's for two more days, but Dean was restless and irritated, and Sam, himself, felt as if he had somewhere he needed to be. Bobby mostly yelled at them when he wasn't interrogating Sam about the angel, and when Lisa and her kids came back the evening of the twenty-second, that was that.

They left, as seemed Dean's habit, right before dawn, heading out into the still, clear twilight. The sky was clean of clouds, indigo fading to turquoise fading to a pale, spring green all along the horizon, and they drove out of Bobby's gate warm with cinnamon pancakes and strong coffee. Bobby had even offered up a jug of the Recipe to 'see in the new year', and Sam wondered how long it would be until they came through there again.

They drove east, and the sun lifted itself above the horizon in a wash of tangerine and saffron and clear honey-gold. Sam-dog put his chin on the seatback and sighed, and Sam felt as if he'd dropped something, back there at Bobby's. As if a heavy, suffocating cloak had slid away and left him light and clean and easy.

"It was the wards," he said, an hour into their drive, and Dean's fingers jerked slightly on the wheel.

"What?"

"The wards. At Bobby's house. I didn't realize it when we were there but they were kind of..."

"Kind of what?" Dean looked a little...tense. Sam-dog, who'd lain down in the back seat, sat up, making that little question sound down in his throat.

"Kind of...suffocating?" Sam was aware that that wasn't a very good answer but it came as close as possible to what it had felt like, driving away from Bobby's house.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Uh..."

"Jesus, Sam. Are you gonna go all..." Dean waved his hand. "All darkside on me?"

"What? No! I'm just...it was like..." Sam twisted around in his seat, tucking one leg up under him a little and facing Dean. "It's like, now I'm not in the ward I can feel...more."

"Feel more what?"

"More like smacking you up-side the head? Jesus. The angel...did something. To me." Dean shot him a look that said 'yes, you idiot, we talked about this at Bobby's for two days' and Sam sighed. "It flipped a switch. Whatever it is that makes Ava and Jake and all the...scanners what they are? It's about...a thousand times more."

"A thousand?"

"Maybe a million," Sam said, biting at a cuticle and Dean hit the brakes. Sam stiff-armed himself off the dash and sent Dean a poisonous look. "What the hell, Dean!"

"Shut up. A million?" Dean's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel and he glared at Sam, jaw tense and working. Sam-dog growled, making the hairs on the back of Sam's neck lift. "You're sitting there telling me that whatever the hell it is in you is a million times stronger than what Ava can do."

"It...feels like it. I can...there's..." Sam stopped, running his fingers through his hair. He'd told Dean and Bobby that the angel had said he could fight – win, maybe. That the angel had said he was...special. He hadn't said that the angel's touch – his 'know thyself' – had opened up another world entirely. Had shown Sam every single atom and particle and fucking...tachyon, for fuck's sake; shown him the key to unlocking it all, to taking the world apart a molecule at a time, if he wanted to. He was pretty sure that if he'd confessed that to Bobby, well.... Bobby would have shot him dead.

Sam didn't really blame him.

"Look...yes, okay? Yes, but...I'm not...I can control it, okay? I won't..." Sam gestured helplessly. "I won't do anything."

Dean stared at him for a long, long minute and then, like a switch flipped in Dean, he started to grin. "Like hell you won't, little brother. Like hell you won't. Stifle it, Sammy."

Sam-dog whuffed softly and settled again, and Dean took his foot off the brake and eased back up to speed. His grin – which Sam thought looked slightly manic – didn't fade. "Where're we going?"

"City of the big shoulders, that's where we're going."

"Huh?"

"Chicago, Sam. Jeez. I thought you were some kind of book nerd, back at...wherever."

Sam huffed, a little offended. "I know what 'city of the big shoulders' means, Dean. It's a poem. I just didn't..." Sam twisted around again, facing front, picking at a worn spot on the canvas coat he'd taken from Bobby. "I don't think...the other Dean ever read that poem."

"Boredom does terrible things to a man," Dean said softly, and his grin faded. After a moment he reached over and patted Sam's hand, a fleeting touch. "I know you...wish –"

"No, Dean." Sam looked over at Dean, frowning. Doubled up his fist and punched Dean's shoulder as hard as he could, making Dean flinch and the car swerve. "No, you asshole, I don't wish."

"Fine, Jesus," Dean muttered, rubbing his shoulder. But he was smiling again, and that was all Sam really wanted.

"So, what's in Chicago?"

"Pretty much nothing," Dean said. They'd made three stops on the way, pulling over in seemingly random places to refuel from hoarded supplies and take breaks, Sam-dog skimming over the snow and coming back with a rabbit, the second time, that Dean had cheerfully skinned for him. They hadn't seen any people, but the roads had been generally clear. Between the bigger cities, Dean said, people usually kept things mostly passable.

It was nearly a thousand miles to Chicago, and it would have taken the other Dean, in that other world, about twelve hours, probably less. It took them over sixteen, and they stopped for what was left of the night with the jagged skyline of the Magnificent Mile upthrust against a rufus sky. There were fires burning, somewhere, and they eased into a driveway and camped in an abandoned house, breaking up furniture for firewood and heating up canned ravioli for dinner. Dean dragged a mattress down from upstairs and they slept in their clothes, surrounded by salt and sigils, Sam-dog across Dean's knees. It was weirdly cozy.

Now it was just past dawn on Christmas day and they were standing on the Mile itself, the white-flecked waters of Lake Michigan in sight, and the blackened skeletons of skyscraping buildings all around. The air was thick with the smell of burning – rough with ashes. The constant, ice-fanged wind had scoured the ground clean of snow, but it clung in corners and down in the bottom of subsidences, dirty grey.

"So...what are we doing here?"

"We're doing a test run," Dean said.

"A test run?"

"Yup." Dean looked down at a crumpled scrap of paper he'd fished from the glove compartment, and then up at the sky, gauging directions. "We're gonna see exactly what these fancy new powers of yours can do."

They ended up at the Millennium Monument in the park, standing in the middle of a steel ward that had been forcibly inset into the cracked pavement of Wrigley Square. Something Max and Scott had made, apparently – one of a couple dozen scattered all over.

"Never know when one might come in handy," Dean said, drawing with violent blue chalk on the un-warded remains of the Square.

"Handy for what?" Sam wondered, but Dean ignored him, cheerfully walking backward, dragging the chalk in a complicated series of circles and squares and triangles. Sam-dog had been left to guard the car, a block away under cover and behind wards in an underground parking garage.

"All right." Dean stood up, dropping the chalk into the hold-all at his feet and dusting his hands together. "Now, we just need a little blood –"

"Whoa, hey, hang on." Sam put his hand out, stopping Dean from drawing the knife at his hip. "What do you mean, blood? What are you doing, Dean?"

"Testing your powers, Sam. Seeing what you can do." The manic grin was fixed – the gleam in Dean's eyes was full of energy and excitement but there was something else, too.

"You...are you gonna...feed me to it, Dean?"

"No!" Dean looked genuinely offended but also slightly stubborn. "I wasn't gonna...I just – we'll be safe inside the ward."

Sam felt something like panic, rising swift and cold. "Until you push me out."

"Sam, God damnit..." Dean shoved his hand back through his hair, leaving a smudge of blue on his temple. "I'm not going to push you out or feed you to it or tie you to a fucking altar and chant Latin backward, okay? I need to know...I need..." He stopped, shoulders slumping, and Sam hesitantly took the two or three steps that brought him right up close, into Dean's space.

The dark green scarf Dean wore was a little frayed, fuzzy, broken threads sticking up against the pale skin of Dean's throat. "You need to know you can trust me."

"Ah, fuck." Dean wheeled away, stomping furiously across the ward and then stopping, staring out at the overgrown jungle of the park. The steel bones of the Pritzker Pavilion poked up above the tangle like the skeleton of some dinosaur, warped by years and weather. "Don't do that to me, Sam. Just don't."

"Don't what?" Sam followed Dean, bewildered. "What am I doing?"

"You're being all...understanding and fucking...calm and shit. You're being rational."

Sam laughed, fists curling tight in his pockets. He felt anything but rational, his belly knotted up like a nest of snakes and his heart beating bird-wing fast in his chest. "Sorry, man. Next time I'll have a tantrum. Kick and scream a little."

"You grew out of those when you were four. I just mocked you 'til you stopped." Dean's gaze slid sideways, looking at Sam, and then focused back out on the park, slitted a little against the smoke-tainted wind. "I want to trust you. I want to just...say fuck it and...let it all go but..."

"But you can't." Sam laughed, softly. It was just so fucking...Dean. "I get it, you know? I had twenty-five years to learn to trust you. And you never...you never once let me down." Sam had the urge to wrap himself around Dean and hold on, tight. Wanted to take Dean's face between his palms and kiss him – wanted to do whatever it took to show him... But – no. That wasn't proof, to Dean. Action was proof. The only thing Sam could do – really do – to prove himself to Dean was to be trustworthy. To never let him down. *God fucking help me. Man up, buddy. Dean lived this every day of his fucking life. Earning something we took for granted. Never let us down. Time to do the same.* The thought of living up to Dean – of doing what Dean had since he was just a kid – was fucking terrifying. *Promise I'll do my best...I won't fail you, big brother.*

Sam touched that new, weirdly alive place inside. Took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, nose and ears stinging from the cold. "C'mon, let's call a demon so we can kick its ass."

Dean looked up at Sam, the grin slowly coming back, and then he laughed – reached out and slapped Sam on the shoulder, holding on for a moment. "That's my boy. Let's go."

Summoning a demon – something Sam hadn't ever done before – was pretty damn simple. A little blood, a little fire, and then he and Dean were standing warily at the very center of the ward, watching the blue chalk design flare up into a weird, white fire. It curled upward in sheets, distorting the view through it and Sam could feel it. It beckoned – sang. It promised, oh, everything and Sam felt himself sway one step forward, entranced.

Then Dean's hand twisted in his jacket and jerked him back and Sam blinked, looking around.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dean hissed, and Sam cursed softly.

"It works."

"Hell, I know that. Jesus. Stay here."

"I..." Dean beckoned, as well – homebloodcomfortfamily – and Sam reached out and tangled their fingers together, squeezing a little. Skin on skin – was better. The call of the other thing faded a little, with the solid, steady rumble of DeanDeanDean rolling across Sam's skin. "Just don't let go, okay?"

"Should we skip, too?" Dean grumbled. But his fingers squeezed back, cold and callused and strong; not letting go.

Something was moving, far out along the southern horizon. Something bright, that wavered and twisted like a candle-flame, guttering. Sam watched it, wondering if it was more of Chicago going up in flames, until Dean suddenly seemed to catch sight of it, as well.

"Oh, fuck."

"Huh?" Sam couldn't tear his eyes off it, the winding, curling flame that twisted through the air like a swallow. Dart and dive and dip, but sinuous as a snake. Riding an ash-skeined wind that tore at their clothing and hair, pushing against the wind off the lake and reeking of burning and death.

"It's one of them, the old ones! Fuck, this only ever called one of the little ones before!"

Dean was yelling over the dry rush of the storm, fine tremors coming through his hand and Sam finally turned his head, monumental effort, and the thing inside him – the power – bloomed. Spread itself as it had before, in Bobby's yard, and Sam felt his mouth falling open and his chest hitching in a hard, sharp breath.

Light, all around Dean. Light and shadow that flowed over him like the dappled sunlight under a tree. Pure, ferocious intent stained with old blood – old sins. A well-used, well-tended weapon, tempered in an unimaginable fire and all the deadlier for it. And then the wind stopped, from gale to dead calm in seconds.

The ward pulsed, blue-yellow-gold, solid walls of power that sank into the earth and rose up above them. Sam traced the lines of it with his gaze – followed them up and up and only looked down again when Dean's hand squeezed so hard around his it hurt. The demon – Grigori – hovered a handful of yards away. It seemed to hum, a subsonic crooning that shivered through Sam's bones. Invasive, intimate caress that made Sam shudder all over.

God, it was.... *Beautiful, it's...beautiful...*

"Are we gonna get eaten by flying skeleton chicks now, Indy?" Dean's voice was raw and shaking, produced with obvious effort and Sam closed his eyes.

"I didn't...think I said that out loud."

"It's a fucking demon, Sam. Kill it." Dean's hand was locked down around Sam's, bone-cracking tight, and Sam squeezed back. Opened his eyes again.

The demon seemed to draw itself upward, twisting pillar that Sam had to tilt his head back to see. "Nochri." It was a word – a voice – but it was at once in Sam's head and in his ears and in his bones. In the very atoms of his self and it hurt and didn't hurt, in equal measure. Beside him, Dean made a choking noise of pain and Sam lashed out with the power, a solid shove.

"Shut up!"

The thing recoiled, hissing, and the next words were purely internal. *One of us, after all. Cousin...brother...lover –*

"No. I'm not." The ward's walls were shivering; a flowing dance of light and the demon leaned in, wide as the sky. Where it touched, a fountain of sparks went up, blue-white and hot-cold and Sam flinched. Dean's hand jerked in his and Sam squeezed it again. "I'm none of those."

*Yesss.... Ourss....* The thing curled around the ward, obscene cat rubbing up against its master and the ward walls groaned, cascading sparks like a rain of electric fire. Dean made that noise again, an ugly, rasping sound and Sam pushed, making the twist of flame and fury and smoke recoil, growling.

"I'm not yours," Sam said, and then Dean was standing in front of him, blood in a thin line from one nostril, jaw clenched and eyes slitted as if against a stinging wind.

"Sammy, fuck's sake, kill it – kill the fucker –"

"Sorry, I'm –" Sam lifted his hand, cupping Dean's cheek – thumb smearing the blood away, feathering over Dean's lip. "I am." He lifted his gaze to the demon and focused, looking. Finding, after a moment, what he was searching for. End of a thread – chink in the armor – and he tugged, unraveling. The demon howled, a rising shriek that sent Dean to his knees. The thing thrashed above them, looping and swerving, curling in on itself and then flowing wide open, sheet-lighting. It gibbered, wailing, and then Sam jerked a little harder and felt it spooling out. Tide of life and smutted light spinning into nothingness. Unmaking it, molecule by molecule.

*Nooo...cannot...will not....* It knotted itself above him, keening, and Sam tore gleefully at the shreds of it, newest muscles flexing somewhere deep inside, burning ache that felt like the best of a runner's high. Like the peak of orgasm, breathless and lightless and endless, God, God –

"Sam! God damnit, stop, Sam, Sam –" Dean's voice – Dean's hands, shaking him. Dean, white and terrified and making him, making him –

"Dean, no –" Sam's voice was slurred – hard to get out. His knees hurt from falling on them, and he lifted one lead-weighted hand and then stared at it in confusion. At blood and tattered flesh and bone, Jesus. "Dean? Dean, what –"

"Stop, stop it, Sam, whatever you're doing to it, stop it, you're hurting yourself, Sam, c'mon –" Dean's hands on Sam's head, holding him – keeping him focused and Sam had a lurching, nauseous moment of mud under his knees, cold, sinking, Dean right there, holding him up, lips moving, voice coming through static, so far away...it's not even that bad...acid flooding his spine, weight of the world crushing his lungs and sorry, sorry, m'so sorry, Dean, sorry...

"Sam, stop it!"

Sam took in a breath, gagging. Took in another and another and let go. Shoved the demon away and almost lost it again when the unraveling stopped – reversed itself. Sudden rush of cold-hot-cold, flooding him. Over Dean's shoulder the demon knitted itself back together, eating substance from the air and the ground, and Sam... He blearily looked at his hand and it was...fine, it was fine. Smudge of blood across his knuckles and an ache in his gut like he'd been punched, but....

"What the fuck, Sam, what's going on?" Dean's voice held a fine, crumbling edge of panic and Sam closed his eyes.

*Be still.* He opened his eyes and everything – was. The demon hung there, static flame. Ash floated, feathers of dirty goose-grey held suspended, everything simply...stopped. Sam could feel it, rippling out and out from him – reaching further with every heartbeat and he had to move, go, hurry the fuck up before he stopped the universe cold. "Dean, it's okay, I...it's..."

"No, it's not, Jesus, Sam." Dean sent a flick of a glance around them, eyes wide. "Nothing's ever fucking easy with you, is it?"

Sam laughed, shaky. Leaned into Dean's touch, forehead to forehead and God, Dean was so warm, was so fucking real.... "I like to make things complicated." They simply stayed that way for a moment. One long, indulgent moment and then Sam leaned back. "I can't...kill it."

Dean stared at him. "You're fucking kidding me, right? Sam?" His hand waved, shaky circuit of the ward – the demon – Chicago. "You fucking...stopped time or something and you can't...can't just...."

"No. It's...we're the same. Too much the same," Sam said, and Dean glared at him.

"You're not a fucking demon, Sam."

"I've got the blood of one in me. I've got...divinity, Dean. Just like the demon does. They – we.... We all started...the same."

Dean gaze was flat – furious, the muscle in his jaw working, working, working. Then he gave himself a tiny shake, and Sam could tell he was shoving the questions and the instant denial down and away. Putting it aside for later, because. "Whatever, man. What're we gonna do? I don't think the Colt –"

"No." Sam blinked, looking at Dean. Seeing, again, what the angel had showed him before. "No, I know exactly what we're gonna do, Dean, c'mon." Sam pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly – hauling at Dean's jacket until Dean came up with him. Sam looked around – held out his hand toward the listing spars of the Pavilion. Cracking one away from the main structure with a groaning shriek of twisted metal. At the same time he gave – everything – a little nudge. At once, with an almost audible snap, the world jerked back into life and motion and Dean was grinning.

"Man, you are one grade A freak, you know that, Sammy?"

"Runs in the family, Dean. Okay –" The length of rust-eaten steel from the pavilion smacked solidly into Sam's palm and the held it up, examining it critically. The demon wove around them, growling – twisting in loops and spirals against the walls of the ward, but the sparks didn't hurt anymore.

*Blood of our blood, cousin, let me in, let me in,* it whispered, but Sam ignored it.

"I can't kill it, Dean, but....you can."

"Huh?" Dean looked at the piece of steel in Sam's hand. "What, you want me to beat it into submission? I'm good, Sam, but I'm not that good."

"Jesus, shut up. This isn't a club, it's something a little more...elegant." Sam gripped the length of steel in the middle, three feet of corroded metal poking out to either side. He squeezed, concentrating, and then slid his hands apart. Between them, growing – seeming to run like quicksilver from his hands – was a sword, sun-bright and flawless. Sam slipped his right hand down the final few inches, to a hilt wrapped snugly in worn brown leather.

"Sam?"

"I can see you, Dean. You're...there's..." Sam stuttered to a stop – just stood there, the sword held across his two palms, offering it. "Saint Michael defeated the dragon with a sword of light."

"I'm no fucking saint."

Sam laughed, because, God, no – Dean wasn't. But he didn't have to be. He just had to be.... "You don't have to be anything but what you are. Who you are," Sam said, and lifted the blade ever so slightly.

Dean looked like he wanted to argue – refuse – but once again, he pushed it down. Let it go, and reached slowly for the sword. When his hand touched the leather, Sam felt a surge of something. Light, energy - life, and the sword slipped into Dean's hand like it was coming home. Dean lifted it, turned it this way and that, the curling, soot-red flames of the demon reflecting in the polished blade like feathers – like dragon's scales. "So, what, I'm fucking...Batman now? A scanner? Do I just...?" Dean made an experimental swipe through the air and the blade hummed, latent power bleeding into the air.

"You wish, man. You're the same as you always were, Dean. Now you've just got...the right weapon." Sam grinned, watching Dean heft the sword – watching him turn and face the demon, which coiled upward, molten smoke. There was something... "Dean, wait!"

Dean pulled his foot back from the edge of the ward and half-turned to Sam, and Sam strode over to him. Reached out and nicked his finger on the shimmering razor-edge of metal. Blood welled up instantly, a thin line of scarlet and Dean frowned.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because you need one more thing...." Sam reached out and touched Dean's forehead – his lips. Pushed his hand down past the scarf and the shirts and pressed a smudge of blood just over Dean's heart. "Te benedico," Sam said softly. I bless you. The words echoed a moment, sifting through the air and through Sam – through Dean, making every particle of him glow for one blinding instant. Dean's eyes went half shut, dark lashes fanning over pale skin and Sam could see the power of the words rippling through him. Changing him, by the slenderest of margins. Just a tiny bit – just enough. And then the light faded, and it was just Dean.

His eyes opened, and he looked back at Sam, old-jade green and ink-black, that inner light shining pure and clear as moonlight through ice. "Thanks, Sam." Dean took a deep breath – turned and lifted the sword, and stepped across the ward.

Later, once Dean had figured out he could simply put the sword away into nothingness – and had put it away a half-dozen times, grinning like a fool – they drove out of the funeral pyre of the city, heading south.

"So, where're we going?" Sam asked, rubbing gingerly at his eyes. The ash and wind had made them burn, and his fingers were cracked and dry from the cold.

Dean eased them around an overturned Hyundai and pressed the gas down, the car surging forward with a growl. Sam-dog was upright and alert in the back seat, his huge ears pricked forward and his tail sweeping back and forth over the worn seat. "I've got a place, down in Missouri. On lake Pomme de Terre. Where I sit out the winter, usually."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's nice. You can ice fish, or just fish...wood lot half a mile away and a good, deep well." Dean stopped and cleared his throat, concentrating on the road. "It's a secure place."

"It's your nest. You nested," Sam teased, and Dean shot him a fierce look.

"Shut up, Sam."

"Are there curtains? I'll bet you got curtains. And a duvet. And matching teacups."

"I will leave you on the side of the road, Sam, swear to God," Dean growled, and Sam just laughed. It felt good.

Treadmill Coda.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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