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Hullo, hullo. Well, a long, lovely weekend. We had *snow*! It didn't stick, or anything. I'm still sick, which is lame. Chest hurts. Doctor tomorrow. Probably getting an xmas tree this week, yay! We always cut down a cedar, they smell *so good*.
Otherwise, wow - totally nothing going on in my life. Just...it's rainy and cold, i'm happy, i'm reading/writing/being fannish and doing house/life stuff and...that's all. Got some xmas gifties already, which is amazing for me. Yay!
Anyway - here's more fic! Part seven. And no, part eight isn't going to be the last part. I am so very bad at this. But - more fic! Thank you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sweptawaybayou for the cheerleading and reading, and darkhavens for the beta-ing. You guys roxor.
Previous parts are here.
Enjoy!
Sam woke abruptly some time later, slouched sideways in the recliner and his head throbbing gently – his mouth dry. Bobby was still in his chair, a lantern burning brightly next to him. He was upright – tense – and Sam finally realized what had woken him. It was the dogs, barking.
More than barking. Going insane, it seemed, out in the yard. Hysterical ululations that made the hair rise on the back of Sam's neck. He pushed himself to his feet, dizzy for a moment, and took one hesitant step toward the door.
"Don't," Bobby said, his voice whip-crack sharp.
"What is it? Bobby –"
Bobby was standing up, balancing easily on his crutches, his mouth set in a hard line. "I think we'd better just get down cellar. No knowing what they'll make of you."
"They who?" The endless howling from the dogs was getting on Sam's nerves in a way that felt uncomfortably like panic. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking and he was pretty sure if Bobby didn't tell him what the fuck was going on, he was gonna start yelling. *Jesus. Get a hold of yourself. Just – calm. Calm down. Where's Dean...* "Bobby, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you later," Bobby said, swinging past him toward the kitchen. There was a thump and the slam of a door and then Dean was there, bringing the cold in with him. Snow caught in his hair and his lashes – on the shoulders of his coat and the scarf that was wrapped around his throat.
"Dean! Jesus, what's going on?"
Dean was breathing a little hard, two spots of color in his cheeks and he flashed a sharp-edged, manic grin at Sam. Terrified, and curbing it hard. "You wanna know? Get your coat."
"Dean, I don't think –"
"What – you think he'll call 'em or something? Think he's in danger?"
"In danger from what?" Sam muttered, but they ignored him.
"I don't know what I think," Bobby snapped, then sighed, shifting on his foot and the rubber-tipped ends of the crutches. "I don't think takin' him outside is a good idea."
"Your wards'll hold, Bobby. You know they will." Dean turned his head sharply as Sam stepped closer to him. "You're not scared, are you Sam?"
Sam stared at Dean for a long moment, remembering this. Remembering those words – that challenge – that this Dean had probably never made. "Course I'm fucking scared, Dean. I know what's out there in the dark."
"You don't know the half of it," Dean said – turned and stalked out of the room and Sam followed, shrugging a little at Bobby's shake of the head. He snatched his coat and hat off the pegs by the door and got them on, following Dean out and into the blast of ice-fanged wind that hit as soon as they got off the porch. The dog's howling was louder – somehow more awful, distorted by the metal walls of crushed cars and the swirling, moaning wind. Dean walked in long strides across the yard – came to a stop at the foot of a section of compressed trucks. The running boards had been layered into something resembling a staircase and Dean stood there, waiting while Sam caught up. Some kind of phosphorescent paint had been smeared along their edges and the makeshift ladder glowed eerily, wavering up into the snow-choked darkness.
"Stay behind me and don't do anything, you hear me? Nothing. They can't get through Bobby's walls, even if they do notice us."
"Dean, what is it?"
Dean flashed that grin again, and swung up onto the first 'step'. "Don't wanna ruin the surprise, Sam." He climbed quickly but carefully, gloved hands finding each new hold before he lifted his foot free. Sam copied him, careful in his sneakers. They climbed a good twenty-five feet before Dean was suddenly gone, off the ladder of metal and on top of the wall. Sam poked his head carefully above the edge, squinting into the hammer-blow of wind and snow. Dean's hand coming under his arm startled him, but he pushed himself up the last few feet and staggered upright. The metal was scoured free of snow, pocked with rust. A tall piece of re-bar had been shoved down into the crumpled steel and a length of chain was looped around it. Dean had the chain wrapped around his fist and he yanked Sam closer, putting the other end of the chain in Sam's hand.
"Hold on!" he yelled, his mouth close to Sam's ear, his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam nodded and wrapped the chain once around his hand, leaning into the wind – into Dean. "Look – eleven o'clock!" Dean shouted, his fingers on Sam's jaw, pushing. The leather of his gloves was icy, slick with melted snow. Sam let his head be turned and he searched the darkness, unsure of what, exactly, he was looking for.
And then he saw it, and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. Far out – miles away, probably – was a flickering rope of...something. Not fire, because no fire could burn that high in winds like that. Not light, because light didn't...move. It was – alive, but it wasn't alive and Sam felt the panic he'd been holding back slam into him like a wave, suffocating.
The thing – no, things, God, there were more than one – moved like sentient liquid. Like contained flame, shimmer of heat trapped in a translucent casing. Casings that were somehow human-shaped without being even remotely human at all and Sam wanted to vomit. They were colored the sick, hectic red of an infected wound – the thick purple-black of viscera and the yellow of bile. They flickered – writhed – bent and swayed and flowed upright again, three twisting shapes that seemed to warp the night around them into a darker, somehow blacker void.
"Wh-what are – wh-what the fuck are they, what – Jesus, Dean, I – I'm gonna –"
"No you're not. You do not fucking dare hurl up here in this wind." Dean's mouth touched Sam's ear as he spoke and Dean's scent was in his nose, leather and gun oil and salt and Sam turned his head for a moment, eyes closed – forehead pushed tight into Dean's temple. He was shaking – sweating – wheezing for air that just would not get down into his lungs, his knees ready to go out from under him and his heart trip-hammering in his chest, fit to break right through his bones. "Just breathe. Everybody feels like this when they see 'em."
"God, oh, fucking...hell –" Sam gulped air and lifted his head – turned to look again. All three were closer now – moving in sinuous, hitching glide that made Sam's gorge rise – made him want to scream. What he presumed were heads – faces – seemed to be turned directly toward him. Staring at him. Seeing him. They could...see him. And everything seemed to – stop. The wind died, cut off as suddenly as closing a door and the eerie, yipping howl of a dozen or more coyotes was suddenly audible, tearing across the darkness. They seemed to hear their own voices and went silent one by one, ragged chorus winding down. In the yard, the dogs abruptly went silent as well and Sam heard Dean inhale with a little click.
"Oh, fuck me –"
"We gotta get down, we gotta get down, Dean, we gotta – oh fuck, they can see me, they can see me –" Sam had never felt quite that level of blind panic – of utter, gibbering terror and he was barely aware of the chain rattling through his hand as he dropped it – as he wrenched away from Dean's arm. "We gotta go, they can see me, oh fuck –"
Dean got a fistful of his coat and jerked him back, his eyes gleaming sickly, the forms reflected somehow in his eyes. "You'll break your fucking neck, you gotta calm down –"
"Dean –" Sam felt a shriek building somewhere behind his breastbone and God, he didn't want to let it out but he was pretty sure he didn't have any fucking say in the matter.
"Sam, you can't –" Something streaked overhead – heatless light that threw no shadow and a sound – a noise that was too deep for his ears but instead thrummed through his body like a bell struck underwater, making his bones ache. The fourth thing arrowed to the earth somewhere in the midst of the other three and all of them seemed to turn. To shiver like blown candle-flames toward the newest one, the three ropes of hellish flame twining together and engulfing it.
"Shit. Let's go – now." Dean dropped the chain and pushed Sam toward the ladder and Sam went to his knees – crawled over the edge and slithered down, hitting every third runner with feet or knees or finger-tips and falling the last ten feet, hitting the ground and rolling as the thumping rattle of Dean's descent told him Dean was right on top of him. Dean hit hard, cursing – grabbed Sam up and ran. A moment later a concussion of sound – a throbbing, booming roar – rattled the air around them. The wall of compacted metal groaned under the impact, everything popping and creaking as if it had been suddenly heated and then cooled too fast. As abruptly as it had stopped, the wind was back, howling down out of the sky, snow like flour, choking them. Sam staggered up the porch stairs beside Dean, missing the door and slamming into the jamb, stumbling over something as he was jerked through the doorway and into the relative warmth and silence of the house. Sam-dog scuttled past them, deeper into the house and Dean just leaned there against the door, his eyes wide and his face sheet-white.
It took about ten seconds for Sam to get enough breath in him to laugh hysterically, and about sixty to bolt for the bathroom and puke so hard it felt like he'd broken a rib. When he made it back into the front room, Bobby had a shot waiting for him. He'd never needed a drink more.
"What the hell are they," Sam asked, and Bobby leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face.
"The Grigori, maybe. Or Bene ha Elohim, the Watchers of God. Fallen angels. Demons, probably, but not ones we can exorcise."
"Demons?" Sam paced between the door and the fireplace, hands on his hips, trying to think. Trying to get past the lingering feeling of runhiderun that kept his heart pounding hard. Dean leaned one elbow on the mantel and watched him, seemingly recovered. But Sam could see the shot of whiskey shivering in his hand, minute tremors that caught the firelight and expanded in flickering ripples. "I – we exorcised demons. They're not – I mean, they're just smoke, not –"
"The demons that possess people are...different. Lesser, maybe. Only partially manifested, I think. What's out there – that's the real deal. That's what fought with the angels and was cast down into the Pit." Bobby poured himself another shot and downed it and Sam put his arms on the mantel – leaned his forehead on his forearms and closed his eyes, the heat stinging against his shins.
"Jesus...Christ. How do you fight things like that, how do you – do – anything?"
"We don't. We don't fight them. We can't." Dean downed his own shot – put the glass on the worn wooden mantel with a little crack. "We've tried. Nothing touches them."
Sam lifted his head, just catching the look of helpless fury on Dean's face before he shut it down. "Something does. What was – wasn't that something else, that came over – some other kind of – thing?"
"No. Maybe." Dean shot Bobby a look of frustration and Bobby gestured with the bottle.
"You boys sit down. Let me tell you what happened, Sam – where they came from. Maybe you'll understand." Sam hesitated for a moment and then settled into the rickety straight-backed chair that was near Bobby's table. Dean flung himself down into the recliner, making it creak in protest. He tilted it back savagely, putting one arm over his eyes.
"I know this story, Bobby."
"Won't kill you to hear it again," Bobby said. He looked at Sam, the bill of his hat casting his eyes in shadow. "There's always been monsters – always been demons. And there's always been hunters. Seems for a while, we were neck and neck. We couldn't kill them all, exorcise them all, but they couldn't take us over, either. Stalemate. Hunters traveled like they always do, and people knew the basics – kept salt and iron in their homes, didn't invite trouble in –"
"Wait – you mean – everybody knows about hunters? You guys are – public?"
"Of course we're public. How could anybody be safe if they don't know what's in the dark?" Dean looked at Sam from under his arm, an incredulous look on his face and Sam had to grin a little.
"I dunno. We were totally off the grid. We didn't tell anybody we didn't have to. We did what we did and shut up about it."
"That's crazy," Dean said, covering his face again, and Bobby chuckled softly.
"People might be stupid, but they want to live. There's been times when they said hunters brought the monsters, instead of the other way around. But something always happens to show them they need us. When the President gets exorcised on national tv, you pretty much have to believe."
"The President? Jesus – who? Who was it?"
"Nixon," Bobby said, little snort of derision. "Like that was any kind of surprise. Anyway, yeah – everybody knows about hunters. People welcomed you – treated you like a guest. It was –"
"Yeah, yeah, it was like bein' a rock star or something, everybody loved the hunters and wanted to give them half their kingdom and their oldest daughter's hand in marriage. It was one big party." Dean's voice dripped with sarcasm and Bobby's mouth tightened in irritation.
"It was a damn sight better'n what it could have been."
"It's over, Bobby. We're not rock stars anymore, if we ever were."
"Wait – I'm confused. Is – do people not believe anymore? What happened?"
"They still believe." Bobby tipped himself back in his chair and Sam felt a weird sort of relief when the firelight shone across his face again, letting Sam see his eyes – see the crows feet and the dark smudges underneath. "There's just not a lot of 'em left to believe. In 2002 there was a plague...it pretty much wiped us out. Went from six-something billion to about somewhere in the millions. Some kinda bird-thing, I dunno. They never really figured it out, but it was worse the more people were around each other. So people abandoned the big cities, trying to get away. Hell – half of 'em went up in flames, either trying to burn it out or burning the bodies..." Bobby stopped talking and poured himself another shot, his hand shaking, and Sam wordlessly held out his own glass.
"It was on the 'net – live feed...should have seen it. Fuckin' Busch Stadium..." Dean spoke from under his arm, motionless in the recliner. "Dumping bodies in off ramps, filled the fucking thing up and set it on fire...kept it burning for a month."
*You were twenty-three* Sam thought, watching him. *You'd been an orphan for eight years. What were you doing when they were burning bodies in St. Louis? Who where you with? I should have been there...*
"People blamed demons – blamed hunters. Hell, people said it was the End Times, the seven seals broken and the anti-Christ walkin' among us." Sam twitched at that – looked down at the glass in his hand to hide it. The one secret he didn't want to ever have to tell. "Bunch'a bullshit, of course. For once, it was just Mother Nature instead of something supernatural. Just...too many of us, something had to give."
"Is there – did they find a cure?"
"Nah. It just kind of went away. Happened slow enough, we didn't lose everything. Still got the 'net – still got communication across the oceans – even got some satellites still up there, floatin' around. So long as people don't get too close – build up too many in one place, it seems to stay dormant."
"So everybody just...hides from everybody else?"
Bobby shrugged, and Dean made a little huff of sound from under his arm. "We don't hide – we just keep apart. Hunters travel – spread the news that people who aren't linked up can't get. There's still radio – people broadcast stuff, all you need's an antenna. Plenty of stuff left for everybody...we do all right."
"It sounds...harsh," Sam said. But actually, it sounded lonely. It sounded like the end of everything...like the world – mankind – was winding down. Clockwork of ages dragging slower and slower, hitching and sticking and eventually...stopping.
"It wasn't so bad, until those things came along." Bobby scratched at his jaw, sandpaper sound of his nails going through the salt-and-pepper of his beard. "Some fool decided they wanted to make a deal – make things better. Make everything like it was before. They called something that should have been left sleeping...opened something they never should have. And those things got out. That was about...three years ago. Where they go...they change things. Make the veil thinner. More things get through, now, and it's easier for spirits to manifest – easier for people to do spells."
"Jesus." Sam pushed his hand back through his hair – leaned back in the chair and then sat up again when the legs wobbled. "So – wait. Dean said...he exorcised the demon 'for what it was worth' – what's that mean?"
"It doesn't really work anymore." Dean pushed the foot rest on the recliner down and sat up. "Those things have kind of made it Hell on Earth. Exorcising the little ones...they go out of the body but not away. They just go off and find somebody else. You have to trap them to keep them off of people."
"Well, hell."
"Yeah." Dean stood up and cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders and walking over to Sam and Bobby. He leaned against the edge of the table, his hands at his sides. But there was a tense wariness in his stance that made Sam feel a little like a mouse trapped under the shadow of a hawk. He tried not to flinch and ended up ducking his head, studying his worn-out sneakers. He needed new laces.
"Hey, Bobby. I forgot to tell you," Dean said, in that soft, deadly voice that made every muscle in Sam's body go rigid. Fight or flight in the space of two heartbeats and his head jerked up, gaze meeting Dean's. "When we were out there, they saw him."
"They – what?" Bobby's voice cracked in surprise and this time Sam did flinch.
"Looked right at him, Bobby. If that other one hadn't come down...I think they'd have tried the wards."
"Well, fuck." The look Bobby turned on Sam was cold – assessing. As frightening as the pure menace in Dean's voice and Sam wanted to get out of there, right now. "Guess I'd better get my ass in gear, then." Bobby pulled a piece of paper toward him and rooted a pen out of an old paint can full of random pens, pencils, screwdrivers and bits of wire. He turned around and pulled a ratty cloth-bound book out of a stack behind him and opened it to a marked page. He drew the lantern closer to his paper and started to carefully draw, starting in the center. Whatever he was putting down was dense and complicated and looked like it was going to take a while.
Sam stood up – slowly, because Dean looked ready to tackle him, or maybe just deck him. Stood there feeling like an idiot, an ache somewhere in the pit of his belly because Dean... *He's never going to trust me now. Never going to believe me. Got to figure this out, got to find a way to prove to him...*
"What are you gonna do, Bobby?"
"I think I know what angel you made your deal with. I'm gonna get it here – see if it'll tell us anything useful."
"You can – but..." Sam felt a sudden rush of anger flood through him, knocking back the fear – the despair. "If you can call angels, why don't you? Why are those things still out there?"
Dean laughed, and Bobby's mouth twisted in a grim little smile.
"He did. He has. It was a human fucked everything up, Sam. A human did whatever it was that opened the gate – that let Hell come to Earth. Bobby called 'em the first time we saw those things, and they came. And they said..."
"They said that their fight was in the celestial, not the mortal sphere. They said that humanity must rise above its own evil and have faith."
"Basically, they said – 'not our problem.' " Dean stretched to pick up the bottle and took a hit straight from it, his throat working. A drop of whiskey clung to the corner of his mouth and he licked it off, smirking when Sam's eyes followed the motion. "We're in this alone, Sam Winchester. Like we've always been."
Part eight.
Otherwise, wow - totally nothing going on in my life. Just...it's rainy and cold, i'm happy, i'm reading/writing/being fannish and doing house/life stuff and...that's all. Got some xmas gifties already, which is amazing for me. Yay!
Anyway - here's more fic! Part seven. And no, part eight isn't going to be the last part. I am so very bad at this. But - more fic! Thank you,
sweptawaybayou for the cheerleading and reading, and darkhavens for the beta-ing. You guys roxor.Previous parts are here.
Enjoy!
Sam woke abruptly some time later, slouched sideways in the recliner and his head throbbing gently – his mouth dry. Bobby was still in his chair, a lantern burning brightly next to him. He was upright – tense – and Sam finally realized what had woken him. It was the dogs, barking.
More than barking. Going insane, it seemed, out in the yard. Hysterical ululations that made the hair rise on the back of Sam's neck. He pushed himself to his feet, dizzy for a moment, and took one hesitant step toward the door.
"Don't," Bobby said, his voice whip-crack sharp.
"What is it? Bobby –"
Bobby was standing up, balancing easily on his crutches, his mouth set in a hard line. "I think we'd better just get down cellar. No knowing what they'll make of you."
"They who?" The endless howling from the dogs was getting on Sam's nerves in a way that felt uncomfortably like panic. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking and he was pretty sure if Bobby didn't tell him what the fuck was going on, he was gonna start yelling. *Jesus. Get a hold of yourself. Just – calm. Calm down. Where's Dean...* "Bobby, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you later," Bobby said, swinging past him toward the kitchen. There was a thump and the slam of a door and then Dean was there, bringing the cold in with him. Snow caught in his hair and his lashes – on the shoulders of his coat and the scarf that was wrapped around his throat.
"Dean! Jesus, what's going on?"
Dean was breathing a little hard, two spots of color in his cheeks and he flashed a sharp-edged, manic grin at Sam. Terrified, and curbing it hard. "You wanna know? Get your coat."
"Dean, I don't think –"
"What – you think he'll call 'em or something? Think he's in danger?"
"In danger from what?" Sam muttered, but they ignored him.
"I don't know what I think," Bobby snapped, then sighed, shifting on his foot and the rubber-tipped ends of the crutches. "I don't think takin' him outside is a good idea."
"Your wards'll hold, Bobby. You know they will." Dean turned his head sharply as Sam stepped closer to him. "You're not scared, are you Sam?"
Sam stared at Dean for a long moment, remembering this. Remembering those words – that challenge – that this Dean had probably never made. "Course I'm fucking scared, Dean. I know what's out there in the dark."
"You don't know the half of it," Dean said – turned and stalked out of the room and Sam followed, shrugging a little at Bobby's shake of the head. He snatched his coat and hat off the pegs by the door and got them on, following Dean out and into the blast of ice-fanged wind that hit as soon as they got off the porch. The dog's howling was louder – somehow more awful, distorted by the metal walls of crushed cars and the swirling, moaning wind. Dean walked in long strides across the yard – came to a stop at the foot of a section of compressed trucks. The running boards had been layered into something resembling a staircase and Dean stood there, waiting while Sam caught up. Some kind of phosphorescent paint had been smeared along their edges and the makeshift ladder glowed eerily, wavering up into the snow-choked darkness.
"Stay behind me and don't do anything, you hear me? Nothing. They can't get through Bobby's walls, even if they do notice us."
"Dean, what is it?"
Dean flashed that grin again, and swung up onto the first 'step'. "Don't wanna ruin the surprise, Sam." He climbed quickly but carefully, gloved hands finding each new hold before he lifted his foot free. Sam copied him, careful in his sneakers. They climbed a good twenty-five feet before Dean was suddenly gone, off the ladder of metal and on top of the wall. Sam poked his head carefully above the edge, squinting into the hammer-blow of wind and snow. Dean's hand coming under his arm startled him, but he pushed himself up the last few feet and staggered upright. The metal was scoured free of snow, pocked with rust. A tall piece of re-bar had been shoved down into the crumpled steel and a length of chain was looped around it. Dean had the chain wrapped around his fist and he yanked Sam closer, putting the other end of the chain in Sam's hand.
"Hold on!" he yelled, his mouth close to Sam's ear, his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam nodded and wrapped the chain once around his hand, leaning into the wind – into Dean. "Look – eleven o'clock!" Dean shouted, his fingers on Sam's jaw, pushing. The leather of his gloves was icy, slick with melted snow. Sam let his head be turned and he searched the darkness, unsure of what, exactly, he was looking for.
And then he saw it, and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. Far out – miles away, probably – was a flickering rope of...something. Not fire, because no fire could burn that high in winds like that. Not light, because light didn't...move. It was – alive, but it wasn't alive and Sam felt the panic he'd been holding back slam into him like a wave, suffocating.
The thing – no, things, God, there were more than one – moved like sentient liquid. Like contained flame, shimmer of heat trapped in a translucent casing. Casings that were somehow human-shaped without being even remotely human at all and Sam wanted to vomit. They were colored the sick, hectic red of an infected wound – the thick purple-black of viscera and the yellow of bile. They flickered – writhed – bent and swayed and flowed upright again, three twisting shapes that seemed to warp the night around them into a darker, somehow blacker void.
"Wh-what are – wh-what the fuck are they, what – Jesus, Dean, I – I'm gonna –"
"No you're not. You do not fucking dare hurl up here in this wind." Dean's mouth touched Sam's ear as he spoke and Dean's scent was in his nose, leather and gun oil and salt and Sam turned his head for a moment, eyes closed – forehead pushed tight into Dean's temple. He was shaking – sweating – wheezing for air that just would not get down into his lungs, his knees ready to go out from under him and his heart trip-hammering in his chest, fit to break right through his bones. "Just breathe. Everybody feels like this when they see 'em."
"God, oh, fucking...hell –" Sam gulped air and lifted his head – turned to look again. All three were closer now – moving in sinuous, hitching glide that made Sam's gorge rise – made him want to scream. What he presumed were heads – faces – seemed to be turned directly toward him. Staring at him. Seeing him. They could...see him. And everything seemed to – stop. The wind died, cut off as suddenly as closing a door and the eerie, yipping howl of a dozen or more coyotes was suddenly audible, tearing across the darkness. They seemed to hear their own voices and went silent one by one, ragged chorus winding down. In the yard, the dogs abruptly went silent as well and Sam heard Dean inhale with a little click.
"Oh, fuck me –"
"We gotta get down, we gotta get down, Dean, we gotta – oh fuck, they can see me, they can see me –" Sam had never felt quite that level of blind panic – of utter, gibbering terror and he was barely aware of the chain rattling through his hand as he dropped it – as he wrenched away from Dean's arm. "We gotta go, they can see me, oh fuck –"
Dean got a fistful of his coat and jerked him back, his eyes gleaming sickly, the forms reflected somehow in his eyes. "You'll break your fucking neck, you gotta calm down –"
"Dean –" Sam felt a shriek building somewhere behind his breastbone and God, he didn't want to let it out but he was pretty sure he didn't have any fucking say in the matter.
"Sam, you can't –" Something streaked overhead – heatless light that threw no shadow and a sound – a noise that was too deep for his ears but instead thrummed through his body like a bell struck underwater, making his bones ache. The fourth thing arrowed to the earth somewhere in the midst of the other three and all of them seemed to turn. To shiver like blown candle-flames toward the newest one, the three ropes of hellish flame twining together and engulfing it.
"Shit. Let's go – now." Dean dropped the chain and pushed Sam toward the ladder and Sam went to his knees – crawled over the edge and slithered down, hitting every third runner with feet or knees or finger-tips and falling the last ten feet, hitting the ground and rolling as the thumping rattle of Dean's descent told him Dean was right on top of him. Dean hit hard, cursing – grabbed Sam up and ran. A moment later a concussion of sound – a throbbing, booming roar – rattled the air around them. The wall of compacted metal groaned under the impact, everything popping and creaking as if it had been suddenly heated and then cooled too fast. As abruptly as it had stopped, the wind was back, howling down out of the sky, snow like flour, choking them. Sam staggered up the porch stairs beside Dean, missing the door and slamming into the jamb, stumbling over something as he was jerked through the doorway and into the relative warmth and silence of the house. Sam-dog scuttled past them, deeper into the house and Dean just leaned there against the door, his eyes wide and his face sheet-white.
It took about ten seconds for Sam to get enough breath in him to laugh hysterically, and about sixty to bolt for the bathroom and puke so hard it felt like he'd broken a rib. When he made it back into the front room, Bobby had a shot waiting for him. He'd never needed a drink more.
"What the hell are they," Sam asked, and Bobby leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face.
"The Grigori, maybe. Or Bene ha Elohim, the Watchers of God. Fallen angels. Demons, probably, but not ones we can exorcise."
"Demons?" Sam paced between the door and the fireplace, hands on his hips, trying to think. Trying to get past the lingering feeling of runhiderun that kept his heart pounding hard. Dean leaned one elbow on the mantel and watched him, seemingly recovered. But Sam could see the shot of whiskey shivering in his hand, minute tremors that caught the firelight and expanded in flickering ripples. "I – we exorcised demons. They're not – I mean, they're just smoke, not –"
"The demons that possess people are...different. Lesser, maybe. Only partially manifested, I think. What's out there – that's the real deal. That's what fought with the angels and was cast down into the Pit." Bobby poured himself another shot and downed it and Sam put his arms on the mantel – leaned his forehead on his forearms and closed his eyes, the heat stinging against his shins.
"Jesus...Christ. How do you fight things like that, how do you – do – anything?"
"We don't. We don't fight them. We can't." Dean downed his own shot – put the glass on the worn wooden mantel with a little crack. "We've tried. Nothing touches them."
Sam lifted his head, just catching the look of helpless fury on Dean's face before he shut it down. "Something does. What was – wasn't that something else, that came over – some other kind of – thing?"
"No. Maybe." Dean shot Bobby a look of frustration and Bobby gestured with the bottle.
"You boys sit down. Let me tell you what happened, Sam – where they came from. Maybe you'll understand." Sam hesitated for a moment and then settled into the rickety straight-backed chair that was near Bobby's table. Dean flung himself down into the recliner, making it creak in protest. He tilted it back savagely, putting one arm over his eyes.
"I know this story, Bobby."
"Won't kill you to hear it again," Bobby said. He looked at Sam, the bill of his hat casting his eyes in shadow. "There's always been monsters – always been demons. And there's always been hunters. Seems for a while, we were neck and neck. We couldn't kill them all, exorcise them all, but they couldn't take us over, either. Stalemate. Hunters traveled like they always do, and people knew the basics – kept salt and iron in their homes, didn't invite trouble in –"
"Wait – you mean – everybody knows about hunters? You guys are – public?"
"Of course we're public. How could anybody be safe if they don't know what's in the dark?" Dean looked at Sam from under his arm, an incredulous look on his face and Sam had to grin a little.
"I dunno. We were totally off the grid. We didn't tell anybody we didn't have to. We did what we did and shut up about it."
"That's crazy," Dean said, covering his face again, and Bobby chuckled softly.
"People might be stupid, but they want to live. There's been times when they said hunters brought the monsters, instead of the other way around. But something always happens to show them they need us. When the President gets exorcised on national tv, you pretty much have to believe."
"The President? Jesus – who? Who was it?"
"Nixon," Bobby said, little snort of derision. "Like that was any kind of surprise. Anyway, yeah – everybody knows about hunters. People welcomed you – treated you like a guest. It was –"
"Yeah, yeah, it was like bein' a rock star or something, everybody loved the hunters and wanted to give them half their kingdom and their oldest daughter's hand in marriage. It was one big party." Dean's voice dripped with sarcasm and Bobby's mouth tightened in irritation.
"It was a damn sight better'n what it could have been."
"It's over, Bobby. We're not rock stars anymore, if we ever were."
"Wait – I'm confused. Is – do people not believe anymore? What happened?"
"They still believe." Bobby tipped himself back in his chair and Sam felt a weird sort of relief when the firelight shone across his face again, letting Sam see his eyes – see the crows feet and the dark smudges underneath. "There's just not a lot of 'em left to believe. In 2002 there was a plague...it pretty much wiped us out. Went from six-something billion to about somewhere in the millions. Some kinda bird-thing, I dunno. They never really figured it out, but it was worse the more people were around each other. So people abandoned the big cities, trying to get away. Hell – half of 'em went up in flames, either trying to burn it out or burning the bodies..." Bobby stopped talking and poured himself another shot, his hand shaking, and Sam wordlessly held out his own glass.
"It was on the 'net – live feed...should have seen it. Fuckin' Busch Stadium..." Dean spoke from under his arm, motionless in the recliner. "Dumping bodies in off ramps, filled the fucking thing up and set it on fire...kept it burning for a month."
*You were twenty-three* Sam thought, watching him. *You'd been an orphan for eight years. What were you doing when they were burning bodies in St. Louis? Who where you with? I should have been there...*
"People blamed demons – blamed hunters. Hell, people said it was the End Times, the seven seals broken and the anti-Christ walkin' among us." Sam twitched at that – looked down at the glass in his hand to hide it. The one secret he didn't want to ever have to tell. "Bunch'a bullshit, of course. For once, it was just Mother Nature instead of something supernatural. Just...too many of us, something had to give."
"Is there – did they find a cure?"
"Nah. It just kind of went away. Happened slow enough, we didn't lose everything. Still got the 'net – still got communication across the oceans – even got some satellites still up there, floatin' around. So long as people don't get too close – build up too many in one place, it seems to stay dormant."
"So everybody just...hides from everybody else?"
Bobby shrugged, and Dean made a little huff of sound from under his arm. "We don't hide – we just keep apart. Hunters travel – spread the news that people who aren't linked up can't get. There's still radio – people broadcast stuff, all you need's an antenna. Plenty of stuff left for everybody...we do all right."
"It sounds...harsh," Sam said. But actually, it sounded lonely. It sounded like the end of everything...like the world – mankind – was winding down. Clockwork of ages dragging slower and slower, hitching and sticking and eventually...stopping.
"It wasn't so bad, until those things came along." Bobby scratched at his jaw, sandpaper sound of his nails going through the salt-and-pepper of his beard. "Some fool decided they wanted to make a deal – make things better. Make everything like it was before. They called something that should have been left sleeping...opened something they never should have. And those things got out. That was about...three years ago. Where they go...they change things. Make the veil thinner. More things get through, now, and it's easier for spirits to manifest – easier for people to do spells."
"Jesus." Sam pushed his hand back through his hair – leaned back in the chair and then sat up again when the legs wobbled. "So – wait. Dean said...he exorcised the demon 'for what it was worth' – what's that mean?"
"It doesn't really work anymore." Dean pushed the foot rest on the recliner down and sat up. "Those things have kind of made it Hell on Earth. Exorcising the little ones...they go out of the body but not away. They just go off and find somebody else. You have to trap them to keep them off of people."
"Well, hell."
"Yeah." Dean stood up and cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders and walking over to Sam and Bobby. He leaned against the edge of the table, his hands at his sides. But there was a tense wariness in his stance that made Sam feel a little like a mouse trapped under the shadow of a hawk. He tried not to flinch and ended up ducking his head, studying his worn-out sneakers. He needed new laces.
"Hey, Bobby. I forgot to tell you," Dean said, in that soft, deadly voice that made every muscle in Sam's body go rigid. Fight or flight in the space of two heartbeats and his head jerked up, gaze meeting Dean's. "When we were out there, they saw him."
"They – what?" Bobby's voice cracked in surprise and this time Sam did flinch.
"Looked right at him, Bobby. If that other one hadn't come down...I think they'd have tried the wards."
"Well, fuck." The look Bobby turned on Sam was cold – assessing. As frightening as the pure menace in Dean's voice and Sam wanted to get out of there, right now. "Guess I'd better get my ass in gear, then." Bobby pulled a piece of paper toward him and rooted a pen out of an old paint can full of random pens, pencils, screwdrivers and bits of wire. He turned around and pulled a ratty cloth-bound book out of a stack behind him and opened it to a marked page. He drew the lantern closer to his paper and started to carefully draw, starting in the center. Whatever he was putting down was dense and complicated and looked like it was going to take a while.
Sam stood up – slowly, because Dean looked ready to tackle him, or maybe just deck him. Stood there feeling like an idiot, an ache somewhere in the pit of his belly because Dean... *He's never going to trust me now. Never going to believe me. Got to figure this out, got to find a way to prove to him...*
"What are you gonna do, Bobby?"
"I think I know what angel you made your deal with. I'm gonna get it here – see if it'll tell us anything useful."
"You can – but..." Sam felt a sudden rush of anger flood through him, knocking back the fear – the despair. "If you can call angels, why don't you? Why are those things still out there?"
Dean laughed, and Bobby's mouth twisted in a grim little smile.
"He did. He has. It was a human fucked everything up, Sam. A human did whatever it was that opened the gate – that let Hell come to Earth. Bobby called 'em the first time we saw those things, and they came. And they said..."
"They said that their fight was in the celestial, not the mortal sphere. They said that humanity must rise above its own evil and have faith."
"Basically, they said – 'not our problem.' " Dean stretched to pick up the bottle and took a hit straight from it, his throat working. A drop of whiskey clung to the corner of his mouth and he licked it off, smirking when Sam's eyes followed the motion. "We're in this alone, Sam Winchester. Like we've always been."
Part eight.