Fic | Souvenirs From The Edge of the Highway | SPN | 3/5

[siehn]

Masterpost

“Tell me what the fuck I wanna know, and maybe this’ll get a little easier for you,” Dean said pleasantly enough, and loosened his grip on the demon’s jaw, tipped the jug of holy water back up until the steady stream turned into a drip and the thing stopped screaming. It sat there, bound to the chair, surrounded by a devil’s trap, panting, and glared at Dean out of black eyes.

“Go fuck yourself, Dean-o,” it answered, leered, and Dean focused in on the grain of salt that spilled from the corner of its mouth. He took a breath, suppressed the urge to rip the meat suit’s throat out, and nodded slowly.

“Alright then, asshole. You don’t seem to get it, so I’ll lay it out for you. My brother? I’m sure you’ve heard of him: Sam Winchester? Yeah, he’s missing. Now, I’m sure you can imagine,” he told it, paced around the chair in a circle and smirked when the thing’s head rotated to follow every movement--keeping him in its line of sight; it obviously felt threatened, “how fucking pissed I am.” He stopped, turned on his heel, and tugged the bone-handled Bowie knife out of the sheath at his waist. He ran his thumb over the runes on the blade, hissed a little as the silver burned his skin. The demon watched him with narrowed eyes.

“This won’t turn out well for you,” Dean added, looked over at it with a feral, vicious grin.

“Please,” it scoffed, sounding like it was trying to convince itself, “you hunters are all the same. You’ll throw around a little holy water, a little salt, and then you send us home.”

It shook its head, sneered. “You people don’t do torture; humans are too weak,” it said.

Dean almost laughed; lifted a lip and shifted his stance instead. He stared down at the demon, stiff-legged and aggressive. “Too bad for you,” he told him, waiting until it looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m not human.”

“The host! You won’t--”

Dean cut it off, rolling his eyes. “That poor bastard’s probably long gone. Even if he wasn’t, you really think I care more about some demon’s fucking meat suit than I do about my pack?” The demon stared, wary, still wavering between the belief that Dean would follow through and the knowledge that he was a hunter.

Dean intended to earn every ounce of that belief if the thing didn’t start talking.

“Look,” he began, courteous, good-natured, and almost cheerful. “I’m a generous kind of guy, right? I’m not after you right now, buddy. You don’t have to suffer. Demons don’t do the loyalty thing, right?” he asked, watched as the interest peaked and smiled to himself. Demons loved deals and betrayal, and Ruby was high enough in the hierarchy that most of the lowlifes would jump at the fucking chance to give her up, and vie for her position once she was gone. Some part of him understood that, but wolves were nothing like demons.

“I’m listening,” it cocked its head, leaned forward against the bonds, and Dean thought the predictability of the lower caste was fucking hilarious.

“You want out of this,” he gestured around them, “without too much more damage.” It wasn’t a question, but the demon nodded. “I want Ruby,” he finally said, crossed his arms, and watched the creature in front of him squirm.

It didn’t claim not to know, didn’t ask ‘who’s Ruby,’ and Dean figured that was all the confirmation he needed that she had taken up her old position as Azazel’s top bitch. He looked forward to finding her, thought he might enjoy sinking his teeth into her meat suit and sending her back to the Pit.

“If I tell you,” it started, stared at the knife in his hand, “what you want to know…You won’t send me back?”

Dean bared his teeth and made a show of lifting the knife to eye-level. “This ain’t really for you, and I don’t have time to waste gutting every fucking demon that annoys me,” he said shrugging. “You give me Ruby, you ugly bastard, and you can go right on partying up here in the mud,” he added, impatience lending the bite to his voice.

The demon smirked, sat back, and crossed its legs. “You’ll get rid of her? Send her Below?” it asked, head tilted again, and Dean was so sick of the stench of sulfur.

“I have unfinished business with the bitch, but yeah,” he smirked a little, “she’s goin’ away for a long time.” Permanently, he hoped, if the knife worked like it was really supposed to. He had never had a chance to test it, himself. He was looking forward to doing that.

“Motel 6, Pontiac, Illinois. You’ll find her there,” it told him, gleeful, and Dean nodded. He shifted his grip on the knife, tightened it, struck out fast, and buried it to the hilt in the demon’s chest. The thing stared up at him, light fading fast from it, and choked out garbled words that Dean could barely understand.

He sniffed, raised a lip in something close to a sneer. “I don’t make deals with demons,” he said, shrugged, looked down at the blood on the blade as it dripped, stained everything in a washed-out, almost-green, and felt a dark curl of satisfaction because the demon was obviously dead. It was always nice to know his toys worked before he really played with them.

He wiped the knife on the demon’s shirt, careless, and used it to cut the ropes that bound the body to the chair. He watched it fall forward, reached out to catch it at the last minute because it was what Sam would have done, and knew he would have to clean up despite wanting nothing more than to get in the Impala and drive. The man who’d had the body first hadn’t asked to be possessed, to have his body snatched from him and his mind raped, and the least Dean could do was give him a proper burial. He wondered when his conscience had started to sound like Sam, hauled the body up over his shoulder, and slipped out of the room.

He’d gotten lucky, had found an old, abandoned barn to interrogate his prey in, and the field surrounding it was over-grown enough that he figured no one lived close enough to bother with it. They wouldn’t notice a burning body, either, he hoped. Dean had built enough funeral pyres for hunters –monsters too, when he’d done his stint on the clean-up crew—to know exactly what he was doing. He lay the body out carefully on the sheet, collected enough dry grass that would burn easily –wood was out of his range—and poured salt all over the corpse before he lit it up, stood back, and watched it burn. He thought Sam, or Cas might have said some kind of prayer for the soul, but they weren’t there, and Dean was, so he just stood silent vigil until there was nothing left but smoldering ash, and walked away without a backwards glance.

He had a demon to find and he was eager to get back on the hunt. Ruby was waiting and he smiled darkly as he slid into the driver’s seat of the Impala, shifted her into gear, and tore off onto the road in a flurry of kicked-up dust and rocks.

---

“Yeah, that’s right. Pontiac, Illinois. Pretty sure he was telling the truth, Bobby,” he said, holding the phone to one ear as he paced the motel room and tossed the last of his burger wrappers in the trash.

“Does it matter? No, look, even if it is a trap, which I doubt, I’ll still get my hands on the bitch. I know what I’m doing, Bobby, okay? I’m not just gonna go in there half-cocked like some fucking newbie,” he snapped, winced, and held the phone away from his ear when the old hunter replied. “I know, alright? Getting myself killed isn’t gonna help Sammy, trust me, I know. I’m not planning on it,” he assured, walked to the window, and peered out to watch the room across the parking lot. He hadn’t mentioned that part to Bobby –the part where he was already here, without back up—and didn’t plan to. He’d been yelled at enough, already, and Bobby abused that privilege way too much, he was sure.

“Hey, Bobby,” he interrupted the man’s rant and ignored the exasperated sigh because he really hadn’t been paying attention. “Have you heard from Cas?” Dean hadn’t seen hide or feather of the angel since Cas had told him Alastair had Sam, and that was bordering on unusual. He’d expected him to pop in at least once by now, with something, or just to make sure Dean wasn’t getting himself killed, but there’d been nothing, and he was starting to worry.

He really had enough to worry about with Sam, already; he didn’t need to be adding a wayward angel to the list. “No,” he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, he wasn’t supposed to check in with you. I just haven’t heard from him in a while.” Bobby snapped back, irritable, and Dean hunched in on himself a little at the tone, an instinctive reaction to being chastised.

“I know you aren’t his—Jesus, Bobby, I’m sorry I fucking asked!” he said, loud and rough, and Bobby grumbled at him but his tone softened in the only apology Dean knew he was going to get.

“Just, keep an ear out, yeah? I know Dad has hunters on our trail, don’t worry about them. Gordon? Really? He sent the freak squad?” he asked, a little incredulous, and stared down at the phone in his hand. Bobby seemed amused, but wary too, and Dean knew he had good reason to be. Gordon and his gang were dangerous, and there were a few who Sam had suspected of knowing too much. Dean wouldn’t mind a shot at them, honestly; with the state he was in it might have been therapeutic.

He didn’t have time to play games with hunters, though, and he could feel his anticipation ratchet up when he caught movement from the other room, looked out, and saw a dark-haired woman slip through the doorway. She looked around, the classic move of someone making sure she wasn’t being followed, and shut the door behind her. Dean growled, low in his throat, and startled Bobby, but he didn’t have time to explain.

“Sorry, Bobby, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” He hung up, snapped the phone shut, shoved it into his pocket, and forced himself to take a breath. He had to be calm for this, couldn’t be strung out or too eager, and it would be easier to just let the wolf out to play. Dean wanted to taste her blood, to rip the meat suit open with his teeth, and see if the demon would leak out the way she had when Sammy had pulled her out of it all those years ago. The urge was so strong that his skin prickled with the force of it, the want to just change and hunt the pack-breaker, but he shook his head, tried to force himself into a mind-set somewhere in the middle. He whined with the effort but refused to let himself move until he was back under control, clenched his jaw, and wrapped his hand around the silver blade of the knife. The pain cleared his mind, helped him think, and he could breathe again.

Ruby –he didn’t know for sure that it was her, but there was something there, something intrinsically familiar in her body language—hadn’t left the room. Dean exhaled loudly, tucked the knife back into his jeans, crossed to the door in two quick strides, and didn’t hesitate when he jerked it open, and loped across the parking lot.

He was quiet when he got to the other side, careful to start three rooms down, and made his way closer without giving himself away. He had insurances to make before he went in there. Ruby was a fucking witch, as well as a demon, and he knew enough to be wary, to not be stupid about this. His spine tingled, hackles raised as he pulled the salt container out of his jacket pocket, and began to line the windows and door. He’d already taken care of the rest of it, had done a little recon earlier, and he wasn’t wrong—

A shrill, angry scream came from inside the door, fury evident in the tone, and he probably would have been able to smell her anger if the sulfur-scent didn’t overwrite everything else. He smiled darkly to himself, bared his teeth as he finished up the line, and stepped up to the door. He forced himself to take a breath, calm down, and opened the door, mindful of the salt line as he stepped inside the room.

“Hey, Ruby,” he said, grinning at the sight of her trapped inside the circle on the ceiling. “Long time no see. I hear Hell’s great this time of year,” he added, crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorjamb.

She stared at him, eyes black, and scowled. “You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, Dean,” she said, pacing the circle, and he noticed that she didn’t look particularly surprised at his appearance.

“What, no curses? No taunts? I’m feelin’ some distance here, Ruby. Where’s the love?” he mocked, one hand pressed to his heart as he moved closer, gesturing widely with the other.

“Fuck you,” she spit, crossed her arms, and glared.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m not into demon,” he said, laughing, and clapped his hands together. “Alright, then, down to business.” He narrowed his eyes, widened his stance, and lowered his head to cover his throat. She watched him, lip curled in a sneer.

“You’re just a dog, Dean. A fucking animal that belongs on a leash,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

“That really hurts, Ruby. Just breaks my heart right in two; let me tell you,” he snorted. “I’ve been called worse by better.” She opened her mouth.

He cut her off. “I want Alastair. I’m assuming you know where to find him.” He was damn proud of the way his voice didn’t shake at all.

She stared. “You? You want Alastair. Why the fuck would you want to find him?” She seemed genuinely clueless, but then, she’d always been a good actor.

He bared his teeth, let his eyes shine gold. “He has my fucking pack, that’s why,” he snapped.

She looked amused. “Oh? Alastair has little Sammy? That is news.”

Dean growled, stalked forward until he could crowd her without making himself vulnerable. “Look, bitch,” he started, glared down at her until she dropped her eyes from his. “I don’t have time for your goddamn games. Sam is mine, he always will be, and you have no part of him. Get the fuck over it, and tell me where that bastard is holed up, or I stop being nice.”

“This is you being nice?” she asked snidely, and stepped back away from him, gesturing wide with both arms. She smirked, looked him in the eyes again, and the challenge was unmistakable. He growled on instinct. “Sorry, Dean,” she said, “I can’t help you.”

He nodded to himself, narrowed his eyes at her. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he told her, reached down to pull the knife out, and looked at it. He smiled a little, pleasant, and glanced back up at her. He was looking forward to this; wanted so bad to spill that filthy fucking blood all over everything, and make her scream, beg him for mercy the way Sammy had begged her.

“See,” he began, grabbed the little desk chair, and dragged it over to the circle. “You’re a pack-breaker. You tried to steal Sam away, and the way I see it? You’re very, very fucking lucky that he got to you before I did.” He moved and grabbed hold of her arm. She hissed, twisted, tried to jerk free. He backhanded her hard, tightened his grip on her arm, and carefully drew the binding sigil that would keep her in the meat suit, keep her tied, and able to feel everything.

“What can you do?” she asked, spit into the carpet at his feet, and glared. Her vessel was small, and even with the demon-strength, she wasn’t any kind of real match for him physically. “Send me back Below? I hate to tell ya, Dean, but that’s old hat,” she said.

He huffed, something between a laugh and an exhale of breath, and tried to keep from just ripping her goddamn throat out. “Oh no, Ruby. I don’t plan on sending you back home. See, I have this nifty little knife, here, that you made, and I thought we might play together for a while before we really test it out; see if it works like it’s supposed to,” he told her, wet his lips, and shoved her down into the chair. He cuffed her wrists to the back. “You sure you don’t wanna tell me where old Al is hanging out these days?”

She jerked against the cuffs, pulled, and twisted until she realized she wasn’t going anywhere. He just watched, arms crossed, and waited.

“You think you can torture me, Dean? Get me to talk?” she tried, straightened, and looked up at him. “You have no idea what goes on in the Pit, what I’ve already had to endure—“

He laughed, couldn’t help it, because that was just some funny shit, and she stared at him. “I have no idea? Really? I spent three weeks with Alastair, Ruby; three weeks of his undivided attention. I know who he is, and what he does, and exactly who threw me to him,” he said, pinning her with a vicious look. Her eyes widened when he slid the knife against her throat, gentle, barely nicking the skin.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, did I?” he asked, finally, and tilted his head at her. “Call me an animal all you want; you’re partly responsible for making me that way.”

She kept quiet and stared at him in defiance, but he could smell her fear, sour and potent, over the sulfur. He smiled, all teeth, and used the blade the same way he would his claws, dragged it down her arm in base, feral fury. He dug in and enjoyed the way she cried out at the pain. He stayed away from the binding sigil; didn’t want to accidentally break it, and set the bitch free.

“Let me show you what I learned, Ruby, after you made me his dog,” he said and let the humanity fall away without losing the shape, lifting the blade to make her scream.

Anything, he’d said once, for pack. He’d meant it, with everything he was.

--------

The wolf loped around the corner, stopped to look around curiously. His ears flicked forward once, then back again, and walked over to the door. He lowered his muzzle, sniffed at it, and sneezed loud enough to leave his fur raised and messy. He shook himself, stepped back, and spared a single glance towards the alley behind him. There was nothing there, nothing he could see through narrowed gold eyes, and nothing moving other than rats, but he was nervous, jumpy, and not comfortable here,alone. There were familiar scents, though, faint traces of pack, and his hackles rose, ears flattened on his head.

This was a bad place for pack. He could smell sulfur, knew that meant demon-dark-smoke and the one who had tried to be alpha, the one who had leashed him like a common cousin-dog, and bid him attack after making him his own. He bared his teeth, lips pulled back into a snarl in reflex at the flash of memory, but kept his silence. He had to be hunter-quiet here, didn’t want to alarm the prey and make them run. He left the door –too many scents there, it was obviously well-used—and snuck carefully around to the side, watched one of the demon-dark-smokes laugh, and crept closer to listen.

“Yeah,” it said, glee evident in its voice. “You shoulda heard it. The windows shattered and everything.”

“I never did get to see any of them Below. Is it true,” the other one asked, “’bout the wings?”

“Oh, yeah,” the first said, smug, and the wolf wanted to get his jaws around that throat, see if he could make the smoke leak out of the holes in the flesh. “They’re big, black things. The Boss hadn’t started on ‘em yet, but he was working his way there,” it added.

“I don’t know how you can stand to be in the same room as it, or him,” the second one said, shook its head, and gave off the sour fear-smell. The other one laughed at him and shrugged.

“It ain’t so bad, really. He let me help, once or twice, showed me how to do it. The angel’s screams were like music, man.” The awe in his voice was sickening, thick and cloying in his scent. The wolf growled, low in his throat, crept closer and inhaled deeply. He sought past the sulfur and demon-dark-smoke scents--the blood and death and Hell-Pit--and found it. There was pack-scent on this one: storm and thunder and lightning. It was everything that made up light-feathers-Cas-pack, and that changed the hunt.

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate the way he might have otherwise, just leaped, snarled, and crashed into the laughing creature. He didn’t give it time to do more than let out a gurgled scream, tore at it with his claws and teeth; leaped for the second one just as it took off running. He didn’t have time to play the hunt-game with it, wanted it dead, and he brought it down, vicious and brutal. He lifted his head to watch the dark-smoke flee into the air. He bared his teeth, muzzle bloody, and growled. He didn’t dare howl his triumph, knew he couldn’t give away his position if he was going to get through this and find his pack.

He stepped over the bodies, crept towards the door they had been guarding, and nosed it open carefully. He flattened his ears against his head as he walked inside, hunched in on himself but ready to spring at a moment’s notice. It was too quiet, too much like the silence of Before, when the human-shape had been a puppy and weak, and rolled over for the pack-breaking fake-alpha. He shook his head, stilled, and tried to listen beyond the silence. The scent of Hell-Pit and sulfur and blood was too strong; he couldn’t find anything beneath it, but if he could—

The wolf’s head snapped up, his ears straightened on his head, and he cocked it, listened. There were screams and the windows shook, the lights flickering. He took a breath and loped off down the hallway they came from. Light-feathers-Cas-pack was down there, howling, and the sense of pack-hurt almost made him dizzy when he focused too hard on it. There were other scents, too; those made him want to cower, roll over, and submit, but he shook himself, raised his tail in dominance, and made himself put one paw in front of the other.

He was afraid, but he wasn’t going to give in to that fear. He stalked down the hallway, kept his head lowered, and hurried past several rooms that smelled of blood and echoed with human-howls. He stopped finally, his nose to the floor, and sniffed at the half-open doorway of the large room at the end of the hall. The screams faded back into the eerie silence, and he peeked around the corner. He had to pull back, close his eyes, and take a breath. He hunched over, concentrated on the human-shape—

Dean opened his eyes and exhaled heavily. He licked his lip, tried to steady the shaking in his hands and failed, but stood nonetheless and walked into the room. He hadn’t expected Cas to be alone, not after the demons and the screams, but there he was, strung up on the rack, limp. His wings were visible, large and black and soaked with blood. There were clumps of missing feathers pulled from him, and they littered the floor at his feet; the sight of it made Dean feel sick and angry.

“Cas,” he said, and hurried over to the angel. He looked him over, wasn’t sure if he should touch, but couldn’t not. He ran his hands lightly over Cas, careful –he knew what Alastair’s hospitality entailed—not to cause more pain than was absolutely necessary. There was blood everywhere and he swallowed thickly, reached up, and cut through the heavy leather bindings, wincing at the sight of the nails in them, and the way they pierced his angel’s wrists.

“C’mon, buddy,” he muttered, sliding a hand across Cas’s cheek in an effort to get a response. “Wake up.” He caught him when he fell forward off the rack; Dean staggered a little at the sudden dead weight and squeezed tightly out of reflex. It worked and Cas jerked up with a cry, pulled his wings back instinctively, and struggled.

“Woah! Easy, man, I’ve got you. It’s me, Cas!” he told him, tugging Cas closer until he stopped struggling enough to really look at Dean, to realize who he was fighting. He was prepared this time when Cas let go and went limp in his arms.

“Dean,” he managed, bringing his hands up to twist them in Dean’s shirt, his face screwed up with pain. “You shouldn’t—Sam’s not—“

Dean leaned closer, tried to make out what he was saying, but his words were slurred and the way his wings moved restlessly, like he didn’t know what to do with them, made it hard to hear or understand. He opened his mouth to tell him so when a terrifyingly familiar scent washed over him and he froze. Cas’s grip on him tightened and he didn’t have to look to know who the angel’s eyes were fixed on, wide and angry.

“Well, well, what do we have here, hm? You weren’t trying to warn him, were you, angel? I’d hate for our reunion to be cut short,” and Dean knew that voice. It was enough to leave him breathless, like someone punched him right in the gut, and he closed his eyes, clenched his jaw against everything: the instinct to cower, to roll over, and show his belly like a submissive bitch, and beg Alastair’s forgiveness for being a bad dog. He slowly let Cas slide to his knees on the floor as he stood.

“Alastair,” he said, his voice hoarse as he turned, looked at the demon he hadn’t seen in a decade, and stood his ground. “Where’s my brother, you son of a bitch?” he asked, grinding the words out through clenched teeth, keeping himself tense; still. Cas kept a hand wrapped around his thigh, though whether it was to hold him back, or ground him, Dean wasn’t sure.

“Hello, my pet,” Alastair said, delighted, and clapped his hands together. “I hear you left a lovely mess at the front door,” he crooned, smug and proud, and Dean wanted so bad to see the bastard strung up himself, tortured into submission, and begging for death. “You always were a very good dog,” and he knew, knew before the words were even completely out of the demon’s mouth what reaction they’d get. The memory slammed into him, staggered him, and his knees gave out.

“I’m going to have so much with you, my pet, when we really get to play,” the demon crooned in his ear, forcefully grabbed his jaw with a blood encrusted hand, and brought their mouths together in a hungry, dirty parody of a kiss. Dean jerked against Alastair’s grip, tried desperately to just get away. Alastair refused to let him go.

“Now, now, pet, be a good dog, hmm?” Alastair scolded. He tangled one hand in Dean’s hair, jerked his head back suddenly, roughly, and scraped a blade gently across his throat: a warning disguised as a caress.

Dean writhed, growled, and his instincts screamed out against the vulnerable, exposed position. He barely registered the pain in his head as he tried to pull it back down, to cover his throat in some age old, wolfish instinct. His eyes flashed gold in panic; Alastair smiled his triumph and slid against Dean’s body suggestively. Dean felt sick.

“Such a pretty thing, aren’t you? Oh, yes. I can’t wait for our real time together to come, Dean,” he said and ran one hand down Dean’s chest, scratching at his skin with old, yellow nails.

“Shut the fuck up!” Dean snarled, wild, and tried to move. He couldn’t and his panic level shot up. He was trapped, cornered, and he needed to get the fuck away now.

“I came up here especially for you, you know,” Alastair began, whispered like it was some great secret just between them. “Nothing else could ever be so good as to drag me up from Below,” he continued, tugged at Dean’s right ear lobe with dirty teeth.

Dean stilled, concentrated in a desperate effort to shift, to change because he knew he could get free, away, if only he wasn’t human-shaped, but he couldn’t. Even trying hurt, sent white-hot pain shooting through him. He didn’t cry out, but a sob was ripped out of him, and Alastair laughed, high and dark, in his delight.

“None of that now, my pet. Later, perhaps, we’ll bring the doggy out to play, but I have far too much planned for this you before we go there,” he said softly, suggestively, and his hands went to the waistband of Dean’s jeans. Dean screamed for hours, for his father, his brother, anyone; just save him, please, just make it stop!

Dean came back to himself when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a jolt of heat coursed through him, like an electric shock, and he opened his eyes to find Cas had wrapped his wings around them and was staring at Alastair defiantly. The demon just looked amused.

“Dude,” Dean said, shrugged out of Castiel’s hold easily. “Keep your Grace to yourself; you can barely stand up.” He stepped forward, gave an irritated growl, and forced himself to keep it together. It was hard; everything Alastair had done to him ten years ago surged forward in his mind, and he wanted to gag but refused to back down. “I’m not a puppy anymore, Al,” he said, working to keep his voice level. “And you don’t have anything over me.” It was a lie; he was terrified, but he couldn’t give in. His pack was in danger, Sammy needed him, and he wasn’t going to let this bastard win.

“Oh, Dean,” Alastair murmured, tsked, and shook his head. “You always were such a stubborn creature.” He smiled, bared his decayed, yellow teeth, and Dean flinched back on instinct, cursing himself for it. “You’ve always been mine, pet. Remember? Ruby brought you to me, all nice and wrapped up, and we had such fun getting to know one another—“

“Shut up!” he growled, shook, and felt Castiel grip his wrist and haul himself up with it to stand beside him. Dean felt the angel press into his shoulder and leaned back into it gratefully. “You don’t own a damn thing,” he said, taking a breath and trying to steady himself. All of his instincts were strained, wanting nothing more than to leap and rip, claw and tear, and kill this threat to pack.

“Touchy subject, hm?” Alastair asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and moved closer. Dean growled at him, low and deep: a clear threat that obviously didn’t affect him any. Instead he mocked Dean, stopped suddenly, and held his hands out, clearly showing how unarmed he was. He turned around slowly, smirked all the while. “Now, now, pet. That’s no way to treat an old friend, is it?” he said, and let his eyes go white.

“Where’s my fucking brother?” Dean asked and hauled Cas back, away. It was hard to breathe and the hairs on the back of his neck were raised. Cas seemed to be holding himself up and Dean knew the angel was healing himself, could feel it in the way he was overly warm, and the storm-scent surrounded them, stronger than usual.

Alastair sighed. “Always on about your little Sammy, aren’t you?” He sounded disappointed. “I had just about trained you out of that, pet, before your little angel came along to drag you away,” he said, looked witheringly at Cas, who smirked at him and waved a little because Cas was a sarcastic bastard at the best of times, and Dean couldn’t help but feel a little proud of him. “No matter, though. We’ll get rid of your feathery attack-bird, and I’ll have you all to myself again,” he began, and started towards them. “You’ll be such a good dog, when I’m through with you, Dean; even better than the Hounds, when I drag you Below.”

The jagged edges of broken glass on the windows shook, and Cas growled before Dean could respond. “Touch him, and I’ll rip you out of your vessel, Alastair. He’s mine,” Cas said, fierce for all that he was still only half-healed. He drew his wings up, defensive, and glared at the demon as he held onto Dean.

“Stay the fuck back,” Dean added, gripping the knife tight, and wished like Hell Cas would get with the mojo, already. He was losing his grip on himself with every step that bastard took towards them.

Alastair scoffed. “Or what? You’ll kill me?” he asked, laughing. “I’m afraid your fancy little knife won’t do the trick on me, little wolf. I’m not some lower-caste filth who can’t handle a little pain, but you already knew that, didn’t you?” he asked, smiling, and he was far too close again. Dean had already stamped down on most of his humanity. He was still too close to the wolf even though he held on to the human-shape, and Alastair was pack-breaker and fake-alpha and a threat; he wanted to see the demon bleed, to hurt him the way he’d been hurt by him.

He leaped, changed in mid-air, and yelped when he felt something grab hold of him. He slammed into the wall opposite them, and whined.

“Dean!” Cas called, and Dean could hear worry mixed with fear in his voice. There was anger there, too, a heady sensation that smelled like wrath.

“Oh no you don’t,” Alastair said, and Dean heard Cas give a pained grunt. He lifted his head to see his pack-mate on his knees again. The demon stood over him, one hand out, and Cas was choking, scrabbling at the invisible hold on his throat as light began to gather in his eyes. His hold on the meat suit was breaking. Dean refused to lose him, refused to even think about it, and pushed himself to all four paws. Pack-hurt was thick in the air and his fear of the pack-breaker was pushed aside, buried deep with his humanity because he couldn’t afford it with Cas-pack on his knees, being killed so slowly.

He was shaky, but gathered himself and leaped for the demon’s back. Dean tackled Alastair, full-body as a human, and the two of them crashed sideways. They rolled, ended up facing each other down with inches between them, and Dean had to use every trick he knew to keep the memories at bay.

It was the slip-slide of skin against skin, spreading blood and come over them both. Nails scratched down his sides, leaving angry, bleeding marks as they dug into his skin, and he could barely feel the pain anymore, had pushed himself down--

“Having a little trouble, my pet?” Alastair asked smugly, and reached out a hand. He barely brushed his fingers over Dean’s skin and Dean growled, pushed himself back, away. He ended up against the wall and knew he had nowhere to go but forward.

He probably would have done something stupid like try to use the knife even though he knew it wouldn’t work, until a familiar hand landed in Alastair’s hair, jerked him back, and Cas’s other hand slammed down on the demon’s forehead as he began to recite in Enochian. Dean had no idea how he was doing it; he was still half-dragging, clearly not healed all the way, but he radiated anger and the storm-scent that was his Grace. Alastair struggled in his grip, but Cas didn’t let go. Dean swallowed hard, grabbed the knife off the floor where he’d dropped it, and lunged towards the pack-breaking son of a bitch. It wouldn’t kill him, but it’d hurt him, and Dean was good with that. He made sure the blade slid through the bastard’s spine, thrust it in and down, felt a dark swell of satisfaction when the meat suit’s legs buckled, useless.

He didn’t stop there, kept stabbing, hacked at the flesh as Cas kept up with the exorcism, and forced Alastair out of the vessel, back to Hell. Dean thought it was too good for him, wanted the demon to suffer the same way he had, but neither of them were strong enough to kill him and it was easier to get him out of the way. He didn’t stop even after the body fell, vacated, face-down on the floor and completely still. There was blood all over him; he couldn’t smell anything but sulfur, and he twisted around violently when a hand grabbed his wrist.

“Dean, stop,” Cas said, meeting his wild stare head on, witing for him to remember where and who he was. “It is over; he’s gone, back to Hell,” he assured, shifting his grip so that he could rub his thumb gently over Dean’s pulse point. Dean closed his eyes, took a harsh breath, and lowered his arm.

“It’s not over,” he said tiredly, drained emotionally, and stared down at the corpse for a long moment. It wouldn’t ever be over. “Sam’s not here,” he added, looking up to see the confirmation in Cas’s eyes. It hadn’t been hard to figure that out; Alastair had never had much interest in Sam, had used him only to taunt Dean when Ruby had first brought him there bound and leashed like a common dog for Alastair to play with. He sighed and leaned into Cas when the angel moved closer to him. Cas was still moving gingerly, still hurt, apparently, and Dean ran a hand over his chest lightly, looked up looking a question in his eyes.

Cas echoed his sigh, looked vaguely disgusted with himself, and pulled his wings in closer until one of them was almost wrapped around Dean. “I had followed a lead,” he explained, not looking at Dean. “And ended up walking right into the middle of a trap. I should have seen it coming, but I made the mistake of trusting someone I shouldn’t have.” His eyes darkened from washed-out blue to something closer to black, and he shook his head. “It won’t happen again.” He seemed to straighten, grimacing at the movement, but the massive black feathers wrapped around Dean disappeared. He could still feel them there, but Cas had sent them back onto whatever plane of existence they belonged to. Dean felt a little bereft without them there, but shook himself out of it.

He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but Cas interrupted him.

“Sam isn’t here, no, but Alastair was very forthcoming when he had me strung up on the rack, Dean,” he said, something like triumph in his voice. “Azazel has him; he’s at Cold Oak.”

Dean was dizzy, though whether out of relief or fear he didn’t know. He leaned heavily against Cas, brought one hand up to tangle in his trench coat, and held on. “Cold Oak. That bastard took him back to Cold Oak to finish the test,” he said, rough, and looked up at Cas. “We gotta get him back, Cas. We can’t let him become whatever they want him to be. He’s ours.”

“We will, Dean. I can send you—“ Cas cut himself off, one hand pressed to Dean’s brow, and turned to level a stare at the door. They could both hear the footsteps, the shouting; the demons were coming, and there were a hell of a lot more than just a few. Dean started to pull back, to tighten his grip on the knife in preparation, but Cas cast him an odd look, something raw, and desperate, and pushed.

“Cas, wait, no—“ It didn’t matter, though, because he was already spiraling through space and time, and he landed hard on cold ground, stared up at the stars, and knew he was in the abandoned old ghost town. Cas had stayed behind, and Dean was alone again.

Comments

[angeblond.livejournal.com]

Will they stop with the 'i will sacrifice myself for you'?