briarwood | FIC: Carnival of Souls (9/10)

Title: Carnival of Souls (Part Nine)
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?

CARNIVAL OF SOULS

Part Nine

"Where have you been, Sam?" Rachel asked. She grabbed his hand – a typical Rachel gesture – and pulled him toward the rest of their friends.

Sam resisted and she looked at him, frowning. "Rache, I'm sorry, but I can't – "

"But you're here now!" she protested. "Where's Dean?"

"That's what I'm saying. I don't know. I need to find him, Rache."

Rachel stopped trying to tug on him and looked at Sam quizzically. "You're acting really weird, Sam. Is your brother...okay?" She made a gesture with her hand to her temple. Is he okay in the head? the gesture said.

Sam felt his expression harden. "Dean's not exactly the poster-boy for college, but he's my brother, Rachel." Sam glanced back over his shoulder to the funhouse. His insides were fluttering, impatient. He wanted to go after Dean, but knowing his father was on the case did take some of the pressure off. Sam knew John could handle whatever was in there, with or without him.

But even as he finished the thought, Sam knew he was lying to himself. The lesson was drilled into him too well, too often. If you're expected as backup, you fucking show up. You do your job. You follow orders, or the blood is on your hands.

Sam turned back to Rachel, with no idea what he was going to say to her. He felt something prickle across his skin, like static electricity. The lights all across the carnival flickered. The music blaring from the speakers nearby crackled with white noise. Then, just for an instant, everything was silent and utterly dark. A moment later everything was back to normal. Sam would have wondered if he imagined it, except Rachel reacted, looking around her. "What the...? Wow. Freaky."

"Freaky," Sam agreed, his mind racing. The glamour that covered the carnival was gone. It was over...whatever his dad or Dean had done, it worked. That was good news, great news...but it also brought a stab of guilt to Sam, because he knew that meant John was right: the demon had been with Dean. Shit.

So Sam met Rachel's look urgently. "Just ten minutes, okay? Listen, I'll meet you guys on the other side of the funhouse, by the Ferris Wheel. But right now, I have to go!" He took off before she had a chance to argue.

"At least come and meet..." Sam heard her call after him. He didn't stop walking.

Sam made his way through the funhouse for the third time that day. The route was familiar, now and he moved quickly. No distractions. He could still hear music and happy voices in the distance. His friends must think he was nuts. There was nothing to do about that now.

He pushed the rope net aside and there was no illusion blocking the way any longer. He dropped down into the space behind the net and drew the knife he'd borrowed from the Impala's trunk, though he didn't believe he would need it now. He steeled himself for whatever he might see and pushed the door open.

The first thing he saw was Dean. He spun around as Sam entered. His eyes widened when he saw Sam and he raised his gun, pointing it at Sam.

Sam froze, holding his hands away from his body so Dean could see him clearly. His eyes took in the scene.

Dean was naked to the waist, his face and chest streaked with blood. His left arm was limp at his side and Sam could see the wrist was badly swollen already. It was enough to tell Sam that Dean had been through something. But why was he afraid of Sam?

"Dean," Sam tried. "Dean, it's me. Sam."

"Prove it," Dean said. He cocked the gun.

John was some distance from Dean, behind the black altar. He said, quietly, "Dean, it's okay."

Dean shook his head stubbornly. "Prove it," he insisted.

Sam had no idea how he was supposed to prove what Dean wanted. He thought of showing Dean his car keys, but he had a horrible feeling he would be shot if he reached into his pocket. Then inspiration struck. "April third, nineteen ninety-nine," he said. The first time he'd beaten Dean at poker. It didn't happen often, so that should be a date they'd both remember.

Dean grinned, but he didn't lower the gun. "You cheated."

"You're the one who marked the deck."

"Christo," Dean said.

And Sam thought he understood. "I'm not possessed, dude. Would you put that thing down."

"Dean," John said again, and it was a warning this time.

Dean lowered the gun, but he didn't seem to relax.

"Jesus, Dean, what happened?" Sam asked, scared now. The smell of blood reached him, too strong for it to be just Dean's blood.

"Show him," John said curtly.

Dean moved to one side and Sam, following his eyes, walked around the altar. He saw the magician's body on the ground.

And then he saw the second body. Sam looked down into his own face, or what was left of it. He stared at his father, then at Dean, understanding the gun at last. "Dude..." he whispered, but he had no words to finish the sentence. All he could do was look back at his brother, hoping the look was enough.

Dean was a mess. Did he believe Sam did this to him?

"Sam." John's voice cut into the silence.

Sam straightened up, tearing his eyes away from Dean. "Yes, sir."

"We have to salt and burn everything to free the souls of those children. The bodies, the altar, all of it." He held out the salt.

Sam took it.

"Dean, can you finish dressing without help?"

"Been doin' that since I was three," Dean answered.

"Fine. Sam, do your job."

Sam wanted to argue but this was familiar territory. Dean needed a hospital, but he wouldn't get help until John said they were ready; which meant when the hunt was over. Damn both of them!

Sam lifted the salt and did his job. He poured salt over the altar and the ground beneath it. He salted the magician's body. He stood over the other with a handful of salt and hesitated. He wanted to ask so many questions but he knew he wasn't going to get an answer. Was this the demon, or some kind of shapeshifter? Who shot him...or it? Was it Dean?

John followed Sam around the ritual space, throwing gasoline over everything as Sam salted. When Sam hesitated over the second body, he laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, just for a moment. "Wait," he said. "Go help your brother."

Sam stepped back but he watched John pull a large bowie knife. John knelt beside the body that looked like Sam and calmly decapitated the body.

Sam would wish for a long time that he'd never watched that.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. He'd watched his father do far more unpleasant things. But somehow this was different. Because it was his face? Because they'd been apart for two years and Sam wasn't used to this shit any more? He didn't know.

John poured the last of the gasoline over the body and reached for Dean's canister.

"Dad, there are a lot of people around," Sam said uneasily. Dean hadn't said exactly what was in the can, but Sam knew it was an explosive. It seemed like overkill, especially with so many people at the carnival.

"I noticed," John answered. "Dean, can you climb?"

"I'm good." Dean sounded rough. He was halfway through pulling on his coat, wincing as he tried to get his broken hand into the sleeve. Sam moved to his side and lifted the coat, helping. Dean glared at him, but said nothing.

"Sam, help Dean climb out of here. I'll set a timer on this and meet you at the car."

"Dad, I don't think..." Sam started to protest.

Dean grabbed his arm. He made it seem like he needed Sam's support to stay on his feet, but Sam recognised the gesture as a warning. "Sam, let's just get out of here," Dean urged. Dean looked at John, who nodded.

"C'mon, Sammy." Dean squeezed Sam's arm again.

They headed for the exit together. Dean went first, and tried to pull himself up without Sam's help. But he automatically used his other hand to steady himself and fell back with an involuntary cry.

Sam linked his hands and gave Dean a boost upward. He followed quickly and found Dean in the hexagonal space above. He was looking around as if he'd lost something, looking first at the door to the maze, then toward the big slide, then to the next exit and the next.

"I swear there was a fire alarm," Dean said, before Sam could ask.

Of course. "Best way to get the civilians out," he agreed. "It's here." The alarm was on the wall beside the rope net. "Dean, how badly are you hurt?"

Dean pulled his coat closed and started fastening the buttons: something he never did. But it hid the blood nicely. "I think my hand's broken again. A couple of the cuts are gonna need stitches, but it looks worse than it is. Pull the alarm, Sam."

"Is Dad...?"

"He knows what he's doin'. C'mon, dude."

Sam pulled the fire alarm. Instantly, the alarm filled the air – a deafening, clanging bell. Dean moved toward the exit. Sam was about to follow him when he heard a child screaming. He looked around. It was hard to find where the scream came from above the alarm, but he thought it was the mirror maze.

"Dean, can you make it without me?"

Dean's look was exasperated. "Dude, I'm not dyin'! Just lost a little blood is all."

"Then go. Someone's trapped in the maze. I'm going to get them out."

Sam ran into the maze. He remembered the way through. Somewhere near the middle of the maze, two children were banging on the glass, unable to find their way and scared to death by the alarm. Sam could see their mother on the other side. She should have been waiting at the exit, but she wasn't. Why? It didn't matter. Sam reached the kids and spoke to them. He had to shout over the alarm. "It's okay, calm down. I'm gonna get you out of here. Just follow me."

The girl – she was about twelve – took his hand as he led them back through the glass and mirrors to their mother. "Come on, you've got to get out of here." He pointed to the narrow passageway that bypassed the maze. "Through here, and down the steps next to the slide. Hurry!"

He followed them until they got to the hexagonal space again. There, Sam showed them the way out and checked the other spaces: the play area above the rope net, and the ball pool below, to make sure no one else was in need of rescue. He saw his father climbing up just as he finished his search.

Sam explained before John could bite his head off again. "There were some kids trapped in the maze. I stayed to help. Dean's gone to the car." As he said it, he realised he still had the car keys. Dean was gonna love that.

John nodded. "Everyone's out?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then run. I used a cigarette fuse so it'll blow any second."

Sam didn't think about it. He turned and leaped over the barrier to the vertical slide. It was the quickest way out of the funhouse, as the slide came out into the field below them. But Sam used a little too much force when he jumped. For a breathless moment, he found himself in freefall. Then he hit the curve of the slide. It was an awkward impact and he had to twist his body quickly to avoid a broken knee. That made the fall even more awkward and Sam ended up rolling downward. At least is was the right direction.

At the bottom, Sam rolled onto a padded mat that helped to stop his fall. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath, then scrambled to his knees and looked for his father.

A woman's voice called, "Sam! My god, are you okay?"

Oh, crap. It was Rachel again. Sam's own fault – he had suggested they meet near here. Sam got to his feet, still looking for John. He walked toward his friends.

"What happened?" Rachel gushed. "That was a heck of a fall!"

Sam ignored her concern. "Guys, better move back. The fire's going to..." Before Sam could finish, an explosion behind him made the explanation unnecessary. A column of fire shot upward above the funhouse. A smaller fireball blew out into the space where Sam had just been. He stared in horror at the burning structure. Was his father still inside?

He was almost ready to run back in to search, when he saw John a short distance away. Sam met his father's eyes, letting his relief show.

Dean? John mouthed.

Sam nodded toward the cars. John nodded and told Sam with a gesture to stay where he was. Sam signalled an okay and turned to the others. "There were a couple of kids trapped inside when the fire started," he explained. "I went to help."

"Did you? Help, I mean?" Rachel was gazing at the burning funhouse.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, they got out. I went back to make sure there was no one else when I heard something blow." He gazed up at the bright flames. "Wild, huh?" It was difficult to keep his tone casual.

"I don't know," a new voice said, "if that's incredibly brave or the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Sam turned to the speaker. "I'd go with dumb," he smiled.

Rachel said, "Sam, this is Jessica."

Sam knew. He'd seen her around, and he liked her, but this was a hell of a way to begin a blind date. He smiled again, feeling awkward suddenly. "Hi, Jessica. I...uh...I didn't expect to fall for you so literally."

She laughed. "Do lines like that really work?"

Sam figured the smooth response would be something like maybe you can let me know later, but instead he said, "No, I suck at improv. But seriously, guys, this fire is gonna spread. I think we should get out of here before we end up spending our date in the ER."

"Sounds like a plan." Jessica offered him her hand and Sam took it, leading her, and the others away from the fire. He could hear the sirens of the fire trucks in the distance.

"Your pocket is ringing," Jessica said.

Sam pulled out his phone. "Dean, where are you?"

"At the car without my freaking keys. But you know that. Can you talk?"

"Uh..." Sam glanced at Jessica, "no."

"Okay, just listen. Dad's gonna take me to a medic he knows about two hours drive away. Will you take care of my car until I can come back for her?"

"Sure, but, Dean..."

"Dude, you're like a mother hen! I'm okay, Dad's okay. I'll call you in a couple of days."

"Jerk." Sam retorted.

"Bitch. Relax, Sammy. We made demon barbeque; it's Miller Time. Have fun with your college buddies and I'll see you in a few days."

Sam had no choice but to agree. But Dean was right. The hunt was over, no one else was going to be hurt by this demon. He could relax for a while. "Okay," he said.

"Take care of my car, you hear. There better not be a scratch on her when I – "

Now who's a mother hen? "Relax, dude. I've got it." Sam pocketed the phone. "Well," he said to his friends, "looks like I've got a really great car for a couple of days. Anyone want a lift back to college?"

The house was a ramshackle cottage in the middle of an isolated field. John was out of the truck almost before it had fully stopped, and hurried to the front door. Dean wondered if anyone even lived here: he saw no car, no lights. The pain in his arm was the only thing keeping him awake. Pain does that. Pain wears you down, until you're so tired you could drop where you stand, and at the same time it keeps you conscious, prevents you from getting any useful rest.

Dean cradled his broken hand against his chest and slowly climbed out of the truck.

John pounded on the door. "Gretchen!" he called.

"Dad, I don't think there's anyone..." Dean began, but right then the door opened.

It revealed a woman wearing a tattered bathrobe over a nightgown. Her hair was white. She had a shotgun in her hand, aimed at both of them.

"Gretchen," John said warmly.

She smiled suddenly. "Johnny, you should warn a girl."

"If you had a phone, I'd have called. We need help, Gret."

"I didn't take this for a social call." She turned her eyes to Dean and her smile vanished. "I hope you didn't get me up for a broken arm."

"This is my son, Dean," John said. "The arm needs attention, but there is more. You should see, Gretchen. It'll be quicker than the explanation."

Gretchen lowered the shotgun and stood back from the door. "Come in."

Dean followed his father into the cottage. "Johnny?" he said, teasing.

"Never argue with a woman who's a better shot than you are," John said.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was sitting in a chair in Gretchen's kitchen, with an ice pack on his left hand and a bottle of whiskey in his right, stripped to the waist while the old woman examined the cuts on his chest.

Dean felt uncomfortable under Gretchen's intense gaze. She leaned even closer, so he got a whiff of peach-scented soap, and traced one of the marks with a long finger. Finally, she turned to John, who was leaning against the kitchen wall, near the door.

"I haven't seen this in thirty years," she began.

"Cut through the mystical shit for me, Gretchen."

She nodded. "There are two ways to lose your soul to a demon, John. One it to agree to the loss, to make a bargain. The other is to have it stolen. These marks dedicate the wearer's soul to a devil."

"Lady, quit talkin' about me like I'm not here!" Dean demanded. Pain made him irritable, but damn it, he was sitting right here and she was looking at him and talking to his dad like he was a thing not a person.

Gretchen turned to Dean. "I apologise," she said, though it didn't sound too sincere. "Dean, you're up the proverbial creek without a paddle as long as the symbols remain on your skin."

Dean gaped at her. Was she saying what it sounded like? The demon was gone, wasn't it?

"How do we erase them?" John asked.

"What are the chances of this demon coming after Dean now?"

"Zero," John answered. "At least until it crawls back out of hell."

"Then it's best to let it heal naturally." She dragged a chair from beneath the kitchen table and sat down beside Dean. "The key is to ensure the marks heal without scarring. I can give you something to use but cold cream or even plain olive oil will do as well. You must treat the cuts every day until you no longer see the wounds. It will minimise the damage."

Dean saw the trap. "Minimise means you can't fix it completely," he pointed out.

"That depends on how easily your skin scars. Everyone is different, my boy. Give the natural healing a chance. If the symbols remain visible on your skin in four to six months, you'll have to consider other ways."

"Other ways?" Dean repeated.

John answered for her. "Covering one scar with another. We'd have to burn them out." John's carefully neutral tone told Dean how much he didn't like that idea. Hell, neither did Dean!

"Unless you could learn to love a nice, bold tattoo, yes," Gretchen agreed.

I could live with it, Dean thought, but he looked at his dad. John didn't look happy. "Dad?"

"I don't like the idea of leaving you vulnerable for months," John admitted.

"But I'm not!" Dean protested. "I mean, this doesn't give the demon control over me or anything. It's only a problem if I die. Right?"

"Yes." John and Gretchen answered together.

"Then I'm okay," Dean decided.

John shook his head. "What have I told you about overconfidence?"

"Dad, dying ain't on my list of things to do this year, okay? This is a dangerous gig, but if it happens, it happens. Healing burns would hurt enough to stop me hunting with you. That ain't happening."

Gretchen laughed suddenly; the sound seemed very out of place. "He's your son, Johnny," she explained.

"Yes, he is."

Part Ten

Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2899