Fic | Souvenirs From The Edge of the Highway | SPN | 4/5

[siehn]

Masterpost

Dean eventually pushed himself to his feet, cursed Castiel under his breath, and looked around. He was on the edge of town He could see the old, crumbling buildings and the water tower, but there were no signs of movement out there. He knew there were demons around; he could smell them and his hackles rose instinctively. He didn’t know why they weren’t attacking, but didn’t trust it at all.

He walked forwards, cautious, kept the knife drawn in his hand just in case, and couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He shivered.

“C’mon, Sam. Where the fuck are you?” he asked and paused to inhale deeply, past the scent of demon and dead things and the old, stale scent of ghosts. He found it there, buried beneath everything else. It was everything that made up Sammy: blood, and brother, and pack, and Dean’s. It overlay the entire town, it seemed like. Something in him relaxed, settled, because Sam was here, and Dean could get to him, could get him back. He knew where he was, and that made a whole world of difference.

“Well, well,” he heard, and whirled around, but there was no one there, “I can’t say that I was really expecting you to show up, Dean-o. I thought for sure Al would have you back to playing his dog.” He knew that voice, too.

“Come out and face me, you yellow-eyed son of a bitch!” he called, kept looking around for any sight of him, but didn’t expect anything. Demons were cowards.

“Oh, no, Dean. This is my game, now. You have to play by my rules, or you say goodbye to little Sammy, and I get the pleasure of watching you break over his dead body,” Azazel said, gleeful, and Dean heard the demons laughing with him. He growled, ducked his head, and spread both arms out wide.

“Alright, fine. Your game, your rules. How do we play?” He knew how to pick his fights, and Azazel was right on this one. He couldn’t afford to let his stubborn pride get his brother killed. It wasn’t the first time he’d lowered himself, or the worst, and he’d do it again a hundred times if it meant Sam was safe.

“That’s a good dog,” the demon said, and Dean resisted the urge to bristle, pushed away the snarl that threatened to rise up. “It’s fairly simple, Dean-o. Find Sammy before he dies. All’s fair,” he announced, theatrically, and Dean wasn’t the least bit surprised. Still, he could work with that.

He nodded, tightened his grip briefly on the knife, and saluted the air with it. “You’re on, asshole,” he said, challenged, and set off at a lope down main street. He knew it wasn’t going to really be that simple, obviously; they weren’t just going to let him walk freely, unmolested.

Possession was out of the picture; Dean wasn’t human and they couldn’t take him, even when he was in human-shape, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get to him in other ways. Demons were pros at fucking with people, at messing with their heads in every way possible, and Dean stopped short when Sam’s voice cried out for help.

“Dean!” he called, and every instinct in Dean screamed for him to answer, to go to his Sammy, and look after him. “Where are you, Dean?” All of it in Sam’s voice, but Dean knew his brother better than anyone. He knew him on levels no one else could, or would, and a demon’s voice was a pale imitation of all the nuances in Sam’s.

“Why don’t you come out and play, you fucking coward?” he asked, loud. He ducked down a side street, but he still felt like he was being watched. Dean hated demons.

“When I find you,” he muttered, “I’m going to rip you apart.” He peeked around the corner cautiously –he wasn’t about to let them get the jump on him when he was so close to Sam—and stepped out into the street. He wanted to know what they were waiting for, why they weren’t trying to stop him or kill him or whatever the Hell it was they had planned. All the watching and waiting and staying hidden was making him nervous. It was one of the many, many reasons he hated Azazel; the demon was smart and a smart demon was hard as fuck to kill.

He yelped, threw himself sideways as the bullet dug into the old, run-down cedar wall of what had once been a Saloon, and stared up at the hole, panting.

“What the fuck?” he asked the air. Demons using guns against them wasn’t exactly new, but he hadn’t expected it here. Azazel was all about playing games; Dean would have figured guns to be too blunt and unsophisticated for him. Then again, he had said all was fair. Dean smiled to himself then, vicious, and spared a moment to glare all around him.

“Fine; your rules, then. Let’s see how you like it when you bastards can’t hide anymore,” he told them, tucked the knife back at his waist, and changed. If all was fair for them, then he could use everything at his disposal, too, and he shook his coat out, stretched, sniffed deeply at the air.

He still couldn’t see the demon-dark-smokes, but they couldn’t hide their scent –sulfur, and blood, and Hell-pit—from him for long. He crouched, crept forward carefully, hackles raised, and slipped underneath the wooden slats of the nearest porch. It was easier to move around that way, where they couldn’t see him, but he could still smell them. He wasn’t really concerned with them, though; the hell-creatures were only side-lines to this hunt, and he cast about, nose to the ground, searched for the scent he knew better than his own. It was there, all over, but he had to find the particular strain, the one that would lead him straight to Sammy-brother-pack, and probably the yellow-eyed pack-thief, too.

They were still laughing, calling out in Sam’s voice, but he could shut out the human things, focus on the scents and sounds and the feel of the pack-bond. He could feel Sam. He’d always been able to feel Sam on some level. He knew he was still alive, for now, and refused to think about that changing. Sam was pack, his, just like Cas, and he’d be damned before he lost them. They were all he had, so he took another breath, focused, and found what he was looking for.

It was natural to slip off to the side, claw his way out from beneath another condemned building, and lift his head towards the sky. He howled his triumph, long and loud, and followed the scent to the center of the town, beneath the water tower. They were still laughing. Dark smoke whirled in and out of his path, tugged at his fur and tail, and clawed at his sides, but they couldn’t do much without a meat suit to hide in. He growled, whirled and snapped at the smoke whenever it got too close, only to watch it dance away, cackling.

“Little Sammy’s gonna die,” they taunted, hissed into his ears until he whined and flattened them against his head. “His blood’s gonna spill across the dirt, and then Azazel’s going to drag him Below, and you know what, Dean?” one asked, drifting almost lazily over Dean as he loped towards the tower. “That’s when we get to have our fun. We’re gonna rip him apart, flay his flesh from his bones, and fuck him until he begs us for relief,” it said, laughed high and loud when Dean snarled and snapped at the formless dark smoke that made it up. He got nothing but a mouthful of sulfur, spit sideways, tucked his tail between his legs, and ran full-tilt the last few feet.

The water tower stood tall, old and rickety as it was. It didn’t actually hold water anymore. Beneath it was a make-shift corral, clearly just built, and without the wear and tear of the rest of the town. Dean’s focus was narrowed down to the figures inside the corral. One of them was painfully familiar –tall, and huge, and so obviously Sam. He stepped forward, glanced at the demons around them, and kept walking when they did nothing but stand there, staring.

Everything went silent again, stilled, and his hackles rose. There was a feeling in the air, a heavy sense that something big was about to happen. The on-lookers shifted back, left a space open at the fence, and Dean wasn’t surprised to find it taken by an older man. He looked cruel, smiling like he was delighted how things had turned out, and he beckoned Dean forward with a laugh.

“I didn’t doubt you would make it this far, Dean,” he said, turned his back to watch whatever was going on in the corral. Dean lifted a lip, growled, and trotted up. He changed when he was close enough, hesitated only a moment before he leaned against the fence beside the demon. He wanted so bad to drive the knife into the bastard’s back, but he wasn’t stupid. If he so much as looked like he was going to make the wrong move, he and Sammy both would be dead.

“Yeah?” he asked, snorted, and rolled his eyes. “You told them not to kill me,” he said, narrowed his eyes, and watched Sam watch the demon that was fenced in with him.

“Of course,” Azazel answered, smiling. “I would hate for you to miss the end of the show, Dean. Your brother is…Quite the prodigy, I must say,” he added, glancing at Dean.

“You know you can’t have him,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice level, human. He breathed in, focused on Sam, and the sight of him there, alive. He was determined to keep it that way.

“Oh yes, he’s ‘yours and the angel’s’ right?” Azazel scoffed. “I don’t think so, puppy. You see, Sam’s been mine since before he was even born. Your mother gave him to me; mine to take whenever I pleased.” The bastard sounded smug, and Dean couldn’t help but turn and stare. He couldn’t smell the lie, shook his head in denial.

“You’re lying,” he growled. He couldn’t believe his mother would have done that, would have sold her own son’s soul before he was even born. “Why would she—“

“Why does anyone in your family do anything stupid?” the demon asked, and rolled his eyes. “The deal was Sam for your father’s life. I did tell her to stay out of the nursery that night, you know. She could have lived, had she honored her side of things.”

That was a lie. Dean lifted a lip in a silent snarl. “You would have killed her anyway,” he accused, tightened his grip on the wooden slat of the corral so he wouldn’t do anything stupid himself.

“Perhaps. What can I say, hm? Your family is just so much fun, Dean,” he crooned, nodding towards Sam. “Take little Sammy, for instance. He’s been quite entertaining, what with all that practice with his powers and practically handing himself over to us. He would have finished this test ten years ago, you know, if you hadn’t interfered with your pet.” He practically spit the word ‘pet’ out, like the thought of Cas left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Fuck you, Azazel. Sam might have your blood, but he’ll never be what you want him to,” Dean said and glared at the demon when he smirked.

“Well, you’d better hope that isn’t true, little wolf,” Azazel said and smiled viciously. Dean wanted to cower back from it, but he held his ground. “If he fails; he dies.”

“You son of a—“ he cut himself off, and looked towards Sam again. He wanted to call out, to howl, and to let Sam know he wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t. It would distract him, and Sam couldn’t afford distraction right now. The demon had stopped circling and leaped, and Dean watched his little brother block a blow that could have killed him. He couldn’t help but lean forwards, every instinct in him telling him to get in there and help.

“I wouldn’t,” Azazel warned, not looking at Dean. “You’ll be dead before you can get over the fence.”

“You honestly expect me to just sit here and watch this?” he asked, incredulous, and stared at the demon.

“Oh, but that’s the beauty of it, Dean,” Azazel said, laughing. “You have to stand here, with me, and watch as your little Sammy either becomes the thing you’ve spent your life hating, or dies painfully at a demon’s hand.” His voice was filled with glee, and Dean had to close his eyes to keep from snapping. He was too close to the edge, and this was Sam on the line. Sammy had always been his biggest weakness.

“I’m gonna see you back in Hell, you son of a bitch,” Dean promised, glaring Azazel down while the demon just laughed, and turned back in time to see Sam catch the demon in the stomach with a fist. He felt a vicious curl of satisfaction at that because at least Sam was holding his own and he couldn’t help but think he’d rather have him halfway demon than not at all. He knew Sam, though. He knew his brother would never give in, had spent his entire life insuring that he didn’t become this thing that the demons wanted him to be. Dean knew he was going to have to watch Sam die, and there was nothing—

“Sam!” he yelled, couldn’t keep quiet when that blade ripped into Sam’s side, and he heard him cry out in pain. The stench of blood hit his nose and he flinched back, growling on instinct. He could practically taste the scent of pack-hurt on the air, and he automatically tightened his grip on the fence, ignoring the splinters that dug into his skin as every part of him vibrated with the need to go to his brother.

Sam staggered, one arm pressed tight over the wound as he held the other out, open and facing his enemy, and the demon came up short, eyes wide as they stared at the younger Winchester. Dean could see Sam running out of strength though, knew that whatever barrier he’d put up with his mind was about to fail, and Sam looked up, broke eye contact with the thing trying to kill him to look Dean in the eye.

“Sammy,” Dean said, whispered, and the demon was getting closer by the second, inching his way through the wall of energy. Sam nodded at Dean. He smiled that sweet, harmless smile that was all Sam, but his eyes were sad, terrified, and Dean could smell his brother’s fear beneath the overwhelming scent of excitement the demons around him were giving out. He could feel his eyes burning, prickling at the corners because Sam had just acknowledged his own death and the bastard was going to leave Dean here, alone. He couldn’t. Dean wouldn’t let him, couldn’t let him because he just wasn’t wired that way, and tore his eyes away from watching Sam stand there as the demon came at him to turn to Azazel.

“I wanna deal,” he said, quick and desperate, and the demon turned to eye him curiously. There was a note of surprise there, like he hadn’t expected this. Dean didn’t think it should really surprise anyone; he’d spent his entire life selling himself for Sam. “Me for Sam; I get a year and you can fucking have me,” he added, practically begging, and he wasn’t above getting on his knees for this fucker if that was what it took.

Azazel made a show of considering it, turned to watch the demon play with Sam. The thing knew he was beaten; it was just toying with him, lashing out with it a boot to kick Sam into the mud and drawing the knife viciously through Sam’s skin whenever he got the opportunity. Dean wanted to rip him apart. “You for Sam; you get no time, and you don’t try to get out of it between now and when I drag you Below,” he countered, and Dean knew he didn’t have a choice. He glanced back into the corral; the demon moved forward, straddled Sam, and made to bring the knife down and into his brother’s heart.

“Done,” he snarled, and reached up to drag Azazel’s face down and crush their mouths together in the kiss needed to seal the deal.

It was disgusting and tasted like sulfur and Hell, and he could feel the contract bind his soul. He couldn’t breathe for a long moment after he pulled back and everything around them was still. It felt like his entire body was on fire as something crawled up his skin to wrap tight around his neck and he reached up to touch the new collar. It was heavy and leather, inscribed with letters from the language of Hell, and he knew he would never be able to get it off. He swallowed thickly, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the demons were gone, Sam was sitting up in the mud, blinking wide, horrified eyes at Dean, and Azazel was leaning against the wooden fence, clapping.

“Well done, boys. Well done, indeed,” he said with a smirk.

“Dean,” Sam said after a look at the demon, scrambled to his feet, and stared down at his side like he couldn’t believe it was whole again. He sucked in a breath, and turned to stare at Dean with a pained look. “Dean,” he tried again and had to swallow. “What did you do?” He already knew; it was clear as day in his expression and the fear-smell and the way the pack-hurt scent lingered even though the physical wounds were gone. Dean wanted to change and curl up with Sam and Cas and never leave them, but reality reared its ugly head and he tried to offer up a smile and couldn’t. Cas was probably gone, ripped apart by demons because he hadn’t been strong enough to get himself out of there, and Sam would never forgive him for this.

“I saved you Sammy,” Dean answered, shrugged, and ignored the way his voice broke. “You’re done; out of the game. I’m the major player now,” he added, glanced at Azazel before looking back at Sam. He’d climbed over the wooden fence and was standing too close.

“Your soul, Dean? What the fuck—“

Dean had to cut him off. “Exactly,” he said, putting on a stern face, and stared his brother down. “My soul, Sam. I get to do whatever the fuck I want with it, and I decided you were worth more.” Sam was worth so much more, and Dean didn’t want to go to Hell; he remembered vividly everything Alastair had promised to do to him down there, but if the only alternative was letting Sam get dragged Below? It wasn’t even a question. He’d choose Sam, every time.

“It’s not fair Dean,” Sam said, and the way his voice cracked almost broke Dean. “You can’t just—You can’t just make this choice for me!” Like Dean hadn’t been doing that since he was four.

He laughed –bitter, resigned, and a little desperate—and shook his head. “Sam, I’ve been making this choice our entire lives,” he said, and reached out to slide a hand over Sam’s cheek tenderly. “It’s always been my choice to make; I look out for you. That’s who I am, Sammy,” he added. Sam shook his head in denial and lunged forwards, wrapping himself around Dean and holding on. Dean’s breath hitched and he wrapped his arms around Sam, burying his face against his brother’s chest for half a moment.

He had just sold his soul and bought himself an eternity in Hell.

He whined in the back of his throat and tightened his arms around Sam; he wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t terrified when they both knew he was.

“Dean—“ Sam began only to be cut off.

“Enough with the sappy goodbyes, boys. If I have to watch anymore of this I’m going to lose my appetite,” Azazel said, stepping forward to smile viciously at the two of them.

Sam stiffened and unwrapped himself from around Dean to lunge at the demon, and Dean hadn’t even noticed Sam take Ruby’s old knife from him. He acted quick, had to, and grabbed Sam before he could get to Azazel.

“Sam, no! Down, kid,” he growled, pulling Sam’s giant body close against his own, and refused to let go no matter how much he struggled.

“Dean what the fuck—Let me go! I’m not gonna just stand here and let you go to Hell!” Sam strained against Dean’s hold, tried to get out of it, and he was practically begging. Dean could smell the salt in his tears, knew he was crying even though he couldn’t see Sam’s face.

“That’s exactly what you’re gonna do, Sam. You are going to stand there and do absolutely fucking nothing! Do you hear me?” He couldn’t afford to be gentle, had to stamp down on his humanity or he’d give in, and he couldn’t do that. Sam would die; Dean had no doubts that Azazel would kill his brother right there in front of him if it even looked like Dean was going to try and get out of his deal through Sam. He growled, low and deep in his throat, and Sam stilled against him at the sound of it. “Don’t test me on this Sam, or I swear to God I will fucking tie you up myself,” he added, shaking Sam a little for emphasis.

Sam slumped against him, practically radiating defeat, and Dean knew he’d gotten his point through.

“That’s right, Sammy-boy,” Azazel said, and Dean glared at him over Sam’s shoulder. He just smiled in response. “You get anywhere near me with that little knife of yours, and I drag you both to Hell.” Sam looked up, and the way he angled his body towards Azazel was far too curious for Dean’s liking. The demon was trying to goad Sam into attacking him so he could have them both. It wasn’t going to work.

“Sam,” Dean warned, tightened his hold on him for a moment before he let go altogether. “Don’t make me do it, Sammy. Please,” he asked, begged, as he shifted them both until he could look Sam in the eyes. “I can’t watch you go to Hell too.”

“That’s exactly what you’re asking me to do, Dean. Do you realize—“ Sam started, sounding so broken that Dean physically hurt just listening to him.

“I know. It’s selfish as fuck, but you’re my little brother, Sam. You’re pack, and you’re mine. Hell can’t have you,” he said and had to resist whirling around to snap when Azazel’s hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed possessively. He felt sick, tried not to think of what he was in for, and focused on Sam being right there, in front of him, and whole.

“Time to go, boys. We’re taking this party somewhere else; a good place for opening Gates,” he told them, still smiling his triumph, and Dean reached out and closed a hand around Sam’s wrist, let his thumb caress the skin just over the pulse point. He didn’t argue, didn’t say anything; he just held Sam’s gaze as the world blurred around them and he was surrounded by darkness and sulfur in the moment of time it took for Azazel to throw them into the ether.

They landed hard on the ground –covered in grass, and dirt, and multi-colored leaves—somewhere Dean thought he recognized.

“Where are we?” Sam asked, pushed himself up on his knees, but didn’t get any further than that. He stared at the headstones all around them with wide eyes. Dean dragged himself up using Sam’s shoulder, and they both glared up at Azazel. He stood a little ways off, drawing a circle in the grass around them with a stick, and chanting under his breath. Sam looked back at Dean.

“We’re home,” he said, and Dean felt him grip his arm tightly. “We’re in—“

“Stull Cemetery,” Dean said for him, and winced at how rough his voice was. “Guess it makes sense, huh. It at all started here.”

Lawrence, Kansas was their birth-place; it was the place Mary Winchester had made her deal and signed their fates away, and the place where she had died. It made a twisted sort of sense for Dean to give his own self up here, for Sam. It seemed to be a tradition in their family, selling their souls to Azazel to save the people they loved.

“Like mother, like son,” Azazel murmured mockingly when he passed, and smirked. Dean growled at him, and Azazel resumed chanting, apparently pleased enough with his victory to ignore them for now.

“What is that?” Sam asked and reached out to run a finger over the collar around Dean’s neck.

“Guess I’m Hell’s dog now,” Dean answered, reaching up to pull Sam’s hand away from it, and looked down so he wouldn’t have to see everything in Sam’s eyes. At least he wouldn’t be around afterwards, wouldn’t have to deal with Sam not forgiving him, and he hunched in on himself without thinking about it.

“Look at me,” Sam said, apparently wasn’t having Dean’s attempt to hide. Dean startled when he felt fingers on his chin forcing him to look up at his brother. “You said I was yours, that Hell couldn’t have me because I belong to you,” he began haltingly, like he was trying hard to find the right words, like it mattered. “It’s the same for me you know. You’re mine, and I’m not sharing you with anyone, except Cas. Please, there has to be something—“

“Sammy, don’t. Please don’t,” he begged, shaking his head in denial at the tears that he could see running down Sam’s cheeks unchecked. “There’s nothing, and you know I have to do this. I’m a selfish son of a bitch maybe, but at least you’ll be up here, and not suffering in the fucking Pit.” He can’t stand that thought; it scared him more than the knowledge that he’d be down there with Alastair. He already knew what Alastair wanted from him, how to be a good dog for the demon.

Sam crawled over to him, they were stuck in the circle, both of them already knew that, and didn’t hesitate before pulling Dean to him gracelessly. “I don’t wanna lose you,” he told him and buried his face against Dean.

“I know, Sammy,” Dean answered, clinging to Sam and closed his eyes. The collar was getting tighter, and Azazel had stopped circling them. He was standing at the edge of the circle, chanting, and Dean could feel it. This was it.

They knelt together in the cold, wet grass of the cemetery, pressed close, and Dean whined -- a low, desperate sound-- as Azazel’s chanting grew louder, stronger, and he could hear the feral screams of the damned as Hell began to tear the Earth open in an effort to get to him. He hadn’t expected it to go like this, to be so aware of it happening, and he tightened his arms around Sam.

“Dean,” Sam whispered. He sounded so broken and desperate that it made Dean ache. His little brother was curled into him, practically wrapped all around him like he believed he could stand between Dean and the Pit. Dean knew better, though. His soul for Sammy’s.

“It’ll be okay, Sammy,” he tried, instinctively clutching his brother tighter when he began to feel something pull at everything that made him him. It hurt; it hurt so fucking bad and the howl was ripped out of him as invisible claws tore at his soul. This was how it had to be, he knew that, but God, he didn’t want to go to Hell. He didn’t want to die and suffer for eternity, and all he could remember were Alastair’s laughing taunts of all the fun he’d have once Dean joined him Below.

The hounds were almost corporeal and they snarled viciously as they did their best to drag him away from his brother, clawing and biting through flesh and bone. Dean tried to snarl back in animalistic, wolfish rage, but it came out as a scream instead and bright red blood frothed over his lips.

“No! Dean! Don’t--”

Sam’s cry cut off suddenly, even as he dragged his brother closer against him and Dean gasped, coming back to himself as he realized that the hounds had backed off. The pain was gone, replaced by a trickling, warm light that felt…familiar, safe; pack.

“Cas,” he whispered, couldn’t talk any louder as his body knit itself back together. It had to be their angel. Massive, dark wings encircled them, shielding and protecting and healing Dean’s soul even as that rough, gravelly voice chanted frantically in Enochian; a sharp contrast to Azazel’s soft, demonic hissing. The demon’s voice rose once he realized who had invaded his circle and stepped in on his deal. He began to chant faster, and Dean wondered why he sounded so hurried.

He looked up at Cas, took in his expression: all determination, and sadness, and a hint of fear, and he knew. It was even clearer when he stared into those too-blue eyes so full of…everything.

“No,” he said, struggling against Sam as he tried to sit up. He settled for grabbing handfuls of that battered tan trench coat and pulling himself up into the angel. “You can’t do this, Cas,” he told him, clinging, and trying desperately to pull his angel’s attention away from whatever ritual he was working. “Azazel said—Cas he’ll drag us both down if you try—“

Castiel cut him off, put a finger over his lips briefly before he dragged it down to touch the collar around Dean’s neck. “He won’t,” he answered and focused on the collar for a moment, and Dean could feel the Grace as it flared around his neck. He could breathe again and the collar was loose; still there, still permanent and he could still feel symbols engraved into the leather. Azazel cried out.

“No! They’re mine now! Dean Winchester belongs to Hell, Angel. There’s nothing you can do to save him now,” he said angrily and strode forwards, brandishing a silver angel-blade in a way that suggested he knew how to use it.

Castiel didn’t falter; the chanting didn’t break and he might have been ignoring them all completely. Except that he kept his eyes locked on the Dean’s, his gaze intense as always, and quirked a sad version of his usual half-smile the moment he whirled around, grabbed Azazel’s hands, and pulled the demon towards him until the blade plunged into his own chest. Cas gasped, his eyes going wide and surprised; he clearly hadn’t expected it to hurt, but his wings only twitched, remaining in their guarded position even as Azazel screamed. Grace leaked out of Cas’s chest. It crawled down the blade, and into the demon’s meat suit before he could remove his hands, and orange light flared as the vessel was purged. Azazel was dead, but Dean found no satisfaction in that as he stared at his angel who was clearly still in pain and dying right in front of them.

Comments

[angeblond.livejournal.com]

Cas, Noooooooooooooooooooooo!

*snif snif*

The pack need you little winged brother.

*Snif louder*