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FIC: Carnival of Souls (8/10)
Title: Carnival of Souls (Part Eight)
Rating: Adults Only (rating is for violence)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (Dean, Sam, John - no 'cest, just the wonderful fucked-up family we all love)
Warnings: Some fairly gory details - see rating.
Summary: Pre-Series fic. Sam left his family to get away from the world of demons and ghosts. But when that world follows him to Stanford, Sam does the one thing he swore he'd never do: he calls his father.
Disclaimer: You don't seriously think I own Supernatural, do ya?
Previous Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven
CARNIVAL OF SOULS
Part Eight
Demons lie.
Dean knew it. It was rule number one when dealing with hellspawn. Never trust them, never believe them. So when this thing wearing his baby brother's face told Dean that Sammy was unharmed, Dean didn't dare to believe it.
Demons lie. So when the demon told him he was going to hurt Sammy, Dean didn't believe that either. Not for a second. He forced a laugh. "What are you nuts? I'd never hurt Sammy. Nothing you can do is gonna change that."
The demon smiled Sammy's smile: happy, a little wary. "You think so?" he said.
"I know so," Dean answered confidently. His mind was racing. Should he even be talking to this thing? What would Dad do? Dad... He would say don't engage. Don't let it mess with your head. On the other hand, as long as the demon was talking, it wasn't turning Dean into so much shish-kebab. If Sammy was okay, he would be back. Dean clung to that hope. He had to stay alive that long.
In the fall of 1888, a serial killer in Whitechapel, London, murdered six women. This man, dubbed "Jack the Ripper" by the newspapers of the day, was never caught. Four of his victims were found mutilated in the dark streets. The mutilation was so precise, so specific that police were convinced the Ripper had some knowledge of surgery. A fifth victim was found dead, but her body untouched: the killer was interrupted in his work and abandoned the ritual, but killed again that same night. The sixth and final victim, however, was not killed on the streets. She was murdered in her own home. What Jack the Ripper left behind in that small room was barely recognisable as having once been human. In a time long before dental records or DNA, the victim could be identified only by the location: the police simply assumed she was the person who lived in that small room. After that terrible bloodbath, "Jack the Ripper" disappeared. He was never identified and never struck again.
Why? Everyone from teenage conspiracy theorists to ex-FBI profilers seemed to have a theory. Very few knew what Dean knew: that the Ripper disappeared because he had finished what he set out to do. That the terrible mutilation inflicted on Mary Kelly happened because the climax of the Ripper's pact with the devil required a very special sacrifice.
The thought was not comforting.
Dean struggled to move but the effort was useless. The demon walked around to stand over the magician's body. He gestured, and the body rose from the ground like a puppet on strings. The black robe (and that was so ostentatious, dude, why were Satanists always such dramatists?) didn't show the blood which Dean knew must have soaked into the cloth, but he did see the holes in the cloth made by his bullets.
"Nice trick," Dean said casually. "Can you make it dance, too?"
The magician opened his eyes.
Those eyes were human. Steel grey eyes below heavy brows in the face of a man who seemed to be in his late 30's. He was also very much alive.
Dean had shot him. He knew he hadn't missed. Three bullets - two in the chest, one in the middle of his forehead. No one human could survive that. It was totally against the freaking rules.
The demon stretched out a hand and the discarded knife, still spattered with Sam's blood. It ran the knife across it's small hand, cutting deep.
Dean reached out automatically, trying to stop his little brother from hurting himself.
As soon as he realised what he was doing, Dean stopped, but it was too late. The demon smiled, an evil smile Dean never saw on Sammy's face. Demon. Fuck. The image of his six-year-old brother was so perfect that for a moment, Dean thought...
Not-Sammy held the bloody knife up to the magician.
"Him?" The magician's voice betrayed surprise.
"Him." The demon's features dissolved into mist as it spoke.
Despite the confirmation that they were going to kill him, Dean was relieved. Anything would be better than this thing wearing Sammy's face. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
The demon's black eyes turned to Dean again. It smiled a happy smile and its face was still Sammy's face. Older, now, ten years old, maybe. His hair was less curly but still tousled and too-long. The clothing changed, too, and the demon was wearing...oh, shit. It was that dumb Florida t-shirt Sammy had loved so much. He'd worn that silly shirt threadbare that year, even patched it himself, until...
"You son of a bitch," Dean whispered. Don't let it mess with your head. Dean understood now. The demon told him he would hurt Sam. Then it showed him Sammy at six, the first time he'd been hurt because of Dean. Now, it showed him Sammy aged ten, in that dumb t-shirt, which was what he'd been wearing when Dean, who was supposed to be watching his little brother, got distracted and turned his back long enough for the werewolf their dad was hunting to claw the shirt off Sammy's back. Sammy still carried the scars; he was lucky scars were all he got out of that attack.
Sammy cried all night over losing that dumb-ass t-shirt.
John grounded Dean until the next full moon, letting him out of his room only for school and training. Sammy almost died, and it was Dean's fault. Again.
But Dean hadn't hurt Sammy. Not when the shtriga fed on him and not when the werewolf attacked. He would never hurt Sammy!
That was when the demon released him.
Dean had been frozen in place for so long he'd begun to relax into it. His hand, still holding the gun, felt numb. When the demon's power was withdrawn so abruptly he staggered and almost fell. Dean didn't hesitate. He let the gun fall from his hand, because it was useless. He let his body fall, using the movement to cover, as best he could, his reaching for the gun at his back. The one with the iron bullets. His hand closed over the gun. He was down on one knee, starting to aim the gun, his finger squeezing down on the trigger...
...and he looked into Sammy's eyes again. The demonic black was gone, and he saw Sammy at sixteen, his brown eyes human, hurt and confused. Sammy, with blood running down his cheek from a gash that Dean put there, the one and only time they'd had a truly serious fight.
Dean couldn't do it. He couldn't pull the trigger on this image of Sam's face. Not to save his own life. Dean knew it was a mistake, knew it was the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life. He lowered the gun, slowly.
Sammy smiled. "Dean, this is gonna be so much fun," he said gleefully. "A willing sacrifice is always so much more tasty."
Dean raised the gun again, but the demon gestured and the gun flew from his hand before he could aim. It gestured again, and Dean felt his body rise off the floor.
His head hit the stone altar and he knew no more.
In Dean's experience, waking up nude, with a bitch of a headache, usually meant he'd been having a hell of a good time.
Not this time.
For starters, he wasn't in a bed. He was lying on rough, uneven ground. Dried grass prickled his bare buttocks. There was a sharp stone under his ass and another under his shoulder. The air he was breathing still smelled of incense and woodsmoke.
Dean opened his eyes a crack, hoping to get a look at his surroundings without his captors realising he was awake. The magician was kneeling beside him, an array of tools laid out beside him as if for surgery. No, for butchery. Dean tried not to dwell on what that meant for him.
His body was stretched out in front of the stone altar in a cruciform position. Each of his hands was bound to the stone. His ankles were bound, too, but as far as he could see or feel, his feet weren't tied to anything. Not that that helped much: he still couldn't move.
He saw no sign of the demon.
Sam was dead. There was no other explanation. If Sam were alive, he would have come back for Dean by now. If he were alive but couldn't come himself for some reason, he would have called the cops, or their dad, or someone. He would never have abandoned Dean. Sammy was dead.
The thought brought a grief that flooded his eyes with tears and closed up his throat. Sammy. Sam.
And guilt, because Sam was Dean's responsibility. He always had been. Dean sent Sam away with the demon. Whatever happened to Sam (oh, god, don't let it have been bad) it was Dean's fault.
And fear, fear of what would happen when his father learned of all this. Dean was a dead man, either way, but he knew John's rage would be terrible. A small, cowardly part of Dean was almost glad he wouldn't live to see it.
And anger and hate. Because if Sam was dead, all that remained was revenge. But for revenge, Dean needed to live. He needed to live!
As the decision crystallised in his mind, Dean saw the magician reach for one of his tools. Dean had less than a second to decide what to do. Years of training kicked in and Dean didn't waste time thinking about it. He acted.
He raised his bound legs, bending his knees and swinging around, pivoting his lower body on one buttock. The magician saw him move, but desperation lent Dean speed. He kicked out and his feet connected with the magician's body. He heard the magician's surprised "Oof!"
Dean twisted his body, pulling on the bonds at his wrists, but they were too tight.
The magician fell, but picked up a knife as he fell, and slashed wildly at Dean's body. Dean cried out as the knife sliced into him. He couldn't get free.
The sound of a gun cocking was unmistakeable.
"Dean!" Sam's voice called.
"Sammy!" he yelled back. His brother's voice was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. An instant later, he had time to wonder if this was really Sam. Did he dare to believe it?
"Dean? Where are you? I can't see you!"
Dean thrashed from side to side, trying to see where Sam was. "Shoot him, Sam! Just fucking shoot!" Pain lanced through his so-recently-healed wrist and Dean bit his lip to keep from crying out.
Sam stepped around the altar. He was armed with Dean's gun, and he had it raised to fire, but he wasn't aiming at the magician. It looked as if Sammy couldn't see him at all. But he saw Dean. Their eyes met and a look of mingled relief and fear flashed across Sam's face.
Sam was scared; Dean was terrified. If Sam couldn't see the magician...
The magician was beginning to rise, a weapon in his hand.
"Sam!" Dean signalled frantically with his eyes. "Shoot! Shoot!"
Sam laughed. He knelt beside Dean on the opposite side from the magician. "Dude, you look like hell."
Dean felt the strength drain out of his body as his hope died. "You're not Sammy."
The thing in Sam's shape smiled. "Are you so sure?" he asked in Sam's voice.
Dean looked at him - it - whatever. It was Sam, down to the last detail. He was wearing the same clothes, his hair was the same, even the blood on his neck where the magician cut him.
Sam laid the gun down, very close to Dean's bound hand. He stretched his hands out in front of Dean's face. "I don't usually bother with a human suit. They're so limiting. But don't assume I can't. Maybe I found your brother...attractive."
"You fucking bitch!" Dean spat. "You're not Sam. Even if that's his body, you ain't him."
The magician rose to his feet. He held a tool in his hand. It was a long, thin spike, like a carving tool, and Dean had an ugly suspicion that was exactly what it was.
Sam held up a hand in a stop gesture. He laid a hand on Dean's arm. The touch was hot, blisteringly hot and Dean flinched away instinctively, the way you do when you touch a hot pan you're expecting to be cold.
"Ouch," Sam said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Did that hurt you, brother?"
Dean didn't answer.
Sam gestured, and once again Dean found his body moving as the demon directed, his legs stretching out again, the dead grass beneath his naked legs rough and prickling.
Sam got down on the ground beside him, laying on his front, propping his chin up on one hand. "Do you know what I'd really love?" he asked conversationally.
"Pizza, a six-pack and fifteen minutes alone with that waitress in Tampa?"
"Funny. No, big brother. What I'd really love is to watch my friend here carve you up alive." He closed his hand over Dean's injured wrist and squeezed. The pain was immediate. Dean actually heard his bones crack. He tried, he tried so hard to keep the pain inside, but he couldn't do it. He tasted blood in his mouth, saw stars before his eyes, and it came out of his mouth in a scream.
Sam leaned closer, his eyes bright with happiness. "If it's done right," he said, still in that casual tone, "you can keep a human alive for days, slicing off a piece at a time. Fingers. Hands. Toes. Skin. Inch by inch. You'd feel all of it, Dean, and with each cut you'd know you were losing another little piece of yourself. Each cut a little closer to breaking you."
Fear almost closed his throat, but Dean managed to choke the words out past the fear. "You're one sick puppy. Anyone ever tell you that? Do it, then. Do your fucking worst."
Sam shook his head. "As much fun as that would be, Dean, baby, it's nothing to what I can do when you're dead and I have your soul to play with in hell." He rolled over and stood up. "So, I'll forego that little pleasure, big brother."
Dean wondered if the demon realised it had left the gun near his hand. It didn't matter, though. He couldn't reach it. The pain in his wrist was like knives twisting inside him. He knew it was broken again. He tried to flex his fingers and the pain doubled, tripled. He wasn't getting free any time soon.
Sam smiled down at him. "He's yours," he said coldly.
The magician raised the thing in his hand and laid it against Dean's chest.
The one good thing about Dean's broken wrist was it hurt too much for the magician's first cut to make much of an impression. The magician sliced into Dean's flesh, shallow cuts, drawing some pattern or symbol on Dean's skin. Dean set his jaw. He was determined not to give them the satisfaction of letting them see his fear or his pain.
He tried to move, to make it harder for them, but he was held immobile. Or...almost. He tugged at the bonds with his good hand, testing them. There was a little give. He kept trying.
He looked up at Sam's face. More to distract than with any real hope, he said, "Sammy, Sam, please. Don't let this happen. Don't let him..."
Demon-Sam gave a childish little wave. "Bye-bye, Dean. See you in hell."
The magician set an obsidian bowl near Dean's body. He lifted a long, double-edged knife and laid it against Dean's throat.
The deafening report of a gunshot echoed in the small space. The magician's head exploded, spattering Dean's chest with blood and brains. Dean closed his eyes by reflex as the gore hit him but terror forced him to look again at once.
He heard a second shot before the magician's body even fell. Dean saw Sam clutch his chest, blood pouring between his fingers. Another shot, and a star of blood appeared between Sam's eyes.
Too late, Dean found his voice. "No! No!"
A last shot hit Sam's shoulder. The impact spun his body around and he fell like a broken puppet. His body was a dead weight across Dean's legs. Hot blood poured from him.
Dean, still trying to comprehend, looked down his body. Sam's face was turned toward him, the eyes open and quite dead.
"Sam?" Dean choked. "Sammy...?"
A figure came into view, moving around the altar.
John Winchester did not look at Dean. He gazed down at Sam's body and the expression on his face was terrifying to see.
Dean stared up at his father, with Sam's blood pouring over his own, naked body. "Dad? Holy fuck, Dad, what have you done?"
Earlier
"You're bleeding." Robbie touched the sleeve of his sweater, a look of distaste on his young face. Sam's blood stained the boy's clothing.
Sam set Robbie down on his feet. "Only a little," he said. He looked around them, staying in the shadows. "You're a very brave boy," he told Robbie.
"Where's mommy?" Robbie asked him.
Probably still answering questions at the nearest police station. "I'm not sure, Robbie," Sam answered truthfully. He crouched down to bring himself closer to the boy's height. "Look over there." Sam pointed. "You see the policemen?"
"Yes."
"I want you to run over to them as fast as you can, okay? You tell the police your name and that you've lost your mommy. They'll keep you safe and take you to her."
Robbie simply stared at Sam, mute. He made no move to obey.
If Sam carried the boy to the cops, bloodied up as he was, there would be too many questions. He needed to get back to Dean. So he grabbed Robbie's arms and turned him around to face the way Sam wanted him to go. "Run to the policemen, Robbie," Sam repeated. "If anyone gets in your way, just start yelling, real loud. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Okay." Sam gave the boy a little push. "Then run. Fast as you can."
Sam watched the boy begin to run, making a bee-line for the two cops. He would be okay now. Sam touched his neck, finding the blood still tacky on his skin. The kid would probably tell them Sam's name and Sam would be in serious trouble if they matched the blood on the boy's clothing to him, but he would just have to worry about that later. Sam turned away, keeping to the shadows, and began to head toward the Impala.
Behind him, the little boy stopped running. He watched Sam walk away, and, unseen by anyone, dissolved into smoke.
The Impala was where Dean left her, parked beneath a tree in the carnival's makeshift parking lot. Sam unlocked the trunk, found a flashlight and used that to search for Dean's medkit. He found it, opened it and discovered it was well-stocked. Everything he needed was there. Sam stripped off his coat and shirt and started to clean the blood from his wound with a cotton pad soaked in peroxide. It stung like a bitch. When it seemed to be clean, he covered the wound with a white absorbent pad and taped it in place. It was a rush job, and he'd have to check it out properly when he had some decent light and a mirror. But it would do for now.
Sam was pulling his shirt back on when he heard the car. Sam tugged the shirt straight and picked up a shotgun. Just in case. The truck, moving much too fast over the field, pulled in beside the Impala. Sam kept the shotgun at his side and reached up to close the trunk, aware that the contents were difficult to explain. But then the driver leapt out of the truck.
Sam felt his heart stop for a moment. Two years. Two years since he'd seen John Winchester. He'd been dreading this ever since he made that first phone call, but to see his dad, finally, the first thing he felt was just plain happy to see him.
It didn't last.
"Where's Dean?" John demanded. "Why isn't he answering his phone?"
Sam reopened the trunk and lifted the crossbow. "Good to see you, too, Dad," he answered. He heard the bitterness in his own voice. Of course, all John cared about was Dean. It was always Dean. His perfect soldier.
"Don't fuck with me, Sammy. Where's Dean?"
Sam lifted the can Dean wanted and a tub of salt. "He sent me back for these," he answered, trying to keep his voice even. He slammed the trunk closed and turned to face his father.
John hadn't changed. He looked at Sam, his eyes intense and focussed. He hadn't shaved for a few days. He wore a leather coat that hung oddly on the right side: Sam guessed it concealed a shotgun.
John had his back to the light, so Sam couldn't see his face clearly. He heard the anger in his voice, though. "You left Dean alone? With a demon?"
"There was no..." Sam began defensively. But the words died on his lips. He'd been about to say there was no sign of the demon, but even as he thought it he knew that was just stupid. They found sulphur. They found a black altar in a circle of asafoetida. You couldn't get more obvious signs of a demonic presence.
Sam had learned not to trust what he could see on this hunt. He'd learned the lesson, and allowed for it, and then made the same freaking mistake again. Just because they saw nothing, didn't mean the demon wasn't there.
He'd left Dean alone in there.
John took the can from Sam. "Don't make me ask you a third time, Sammy."
"Dean's at the funhouse. He told me to leave, Dad..."
"Of course he did! Tell me what's happened. Everything that's happened."
The Of course widened Sam's eyes as something clicked together in his head. Dean wanted him out of there. Dean deliberately got rid of him. Why?
Sam took a deep breath, swallowing his questions with an effort. He described what they found inside the funhouse as they walked quickly toward the carnival.
Striding through the carnival with Sam at his side, John saw everything, and nothing. His eyes took in the lay of the land as he automatically identified risks, danger areas and escape routes. The damned field was full of civilians and that could make things complicated. You can't just pull a gun in a crowd, no matter how dangerous whatever you're hunting might be.
John had one plan, one plan only. Find Dean.
His heavy leather coat concealed a shotgun. He had two handguns, the first loaded with consecrated iron and held in his belt; the second with regular ammo in his coat pocket. He carried holy water, and more. He kept one hand in his pocket as he walked, caressing the gun.
Focus on the mission. Don't think of all the things you ought to be saying to your youngest boy. Don't even look his way. There isn't time for old-home-week. Find Dean.
"Sam!"
John's head snapped around at the sound of the woman's voice. He saw a girl about Sammy's age waving frantically. She wasn't alone. John counted six others, most of them looking Sammy's way. His friends, John assumed. The girl called Sam's name again. Enough.
"Friends of yours," John asked. He stopped walking, forcing Sam to do the same.
Sam glanced over as if he hadn't seen them until that moment. "Yeah. We planned to meet here, before..."
John interrupted, not interested in the explanation. "Then go to them."
"What? No! Dad, I'm goin' with – "
Why did Sammy always fucking argue? John had no patience for it. "Sam, the only thing worse than us not finding Dean, will be finding him in that place with your friends following us. Obey orders for once in your life." He saw the stubborn look in his son's eyes and pressed on anyway. "Go to your friends. Tell them whatever rubbish you like but don't come near that funhouse until you've ditched them. Got it?"
Sammy nodded sullenly. "Yes, sir," he said in a voice that clearly meant go and fuck yourself.
You haven't changed, have you? John ignored the tone and strode away from his son.
The directions Sam gave him were good. John found the fire door with no difficulty and made his way up to the place Sam described. When he saw the rope net John felt a moment's admiration for his boys. He wasn't sure he would have thought to look there. It appeared solid to him. But he could smell the incense and smoke. He lifted the ropes aside, ignoring the curious looks of the carnival-goers, and carefully lowered himself into the space behind.
John's gun was already in his hand as he landed. He was reaching to open the door when he heard:
"Sammy, Sam, please. Don't let this happen. Don't let him..."
And, before John could even wonder what the hell that meant, he heard Sammy's voice answer, "Bye-bye, Dean. See you in hell."
John pushed the door open. He had only an instant to take in the scene and to act. An instant was all he needed.
He shot the magician first. He was human so it only needed one shot. Then he turned his gun on the demon wearing his son's face. He didn't even hesitate. To kill a demon's corporeal form, one shot isn't enough. The sons of bitches heal. You have to destroy it.
So he fired – heart, head, lung – but even as the demon fell John knew it wasn't enough. He strode around the altar to finish the job. He looked down at the demon. It lay across Dean's naked body, not moving.
John couldn't shoot it again; he would hit Dean. He was about to move it so he could finish the job, when Dean spoke.
"Dad? Holy fuck, Dad, what have you done?"
It forced John to look at Dean, really look. He saw that his son was bound to the altar, one wrist clearly broken, bruised and swollen. He saw that Dean was naked, and that someone or something had carved symbols into the skin of his chest. There were streaks of blood across his skin from those shallow wounds. And the demon, lying on top of Dean, its blood soaking into the grass.
Worst of all was the look on Dean's face. Disbelief, fear, shock, a dozen other emotions in his wide eyes. John realised, too late, that Dean believed the thing John shot really was his brother.
Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2899
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That's my big climax...I have a little twist or two left, but it'll be finished soon.
So thrilled you like it!
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