briarwood | FIC: Carnival of Souls (7/10)

Title: Carnival of Souls (Part Seven)
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 Seven

"Double espresso to go." John laid a few dollars on the counter, half turning as he spoke to keep the door in sight. He'd stopped only long enough to refuel – the truck and himself. He was still hours away from Palo Alto.

The waitress took his money with a smile. "Long journey?"

A friendly face was welcome but John wasn't in the mood for small talk. "Miles to go," he agreed. He took the paper cup from her and headed for the door without another word. Outside, the noon air felt thick and humid. He sipped the coffee. It was terrible, but he enjoyed the bitter taste. He needed the caffeine.

John climbed into the truck and sat behind the wheel while he finished the coffee. He crushed the empty cup, tossed it onto the seat next to him where it joined several others, and started the engine.

It was then that his phone rang. John snatched it up. "John Winchester."

"It's me, Dad."

Dean. At last. "Report," he ordered.

Dean talked. John listened, steering with one hand as he turned the truck back onto the road. He didn't interrupt, didn't ask questions. He didn't need to: Dean's report was thorough.

"Sammy thinks we should call the cops," Dean concluded. "What do you want us to do?"

John considered it. Calling in the police at this point would end the string of murders. But it wouldn't save the souls of the earlier victims. There was no choice. "No. Keep that option in reserve. Do it if you have to, but I want to handle this our way."

"Me too."

"Good. Are you and Sammy still at the carnival?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then don't leave. You haven't spotted the magician yet?"

"No. It's not like this place is an easy stake-out, Dad, but we'll keep looking." Dean hesitated, then, speaking more quietly, added, "Dad, about the sulphur we found around the altar..."

John knew Dean was remembering the last demon they faced. "That's not a surprise, son. You already knew a demon is involved. You know how to handle that if you need to." He waited, but Dean didn't answer. "Dean, is there something you're not telling me?"

"I've told you everything. Why wouldn't I?"

"Then you have your orders." It was the best he could do for Dean. John understood Dean's fear, but Dean was a hunter. He, like John, had to confront the things he feared. Whether or not this was, as Dean believed, the same demon as before, Dean had to deal with it.

All John could do for him was be at his side when it hit the fan.

A few moments later, John pocketed his phone and floored the gas, continuing his long drive west.

Sam caught the soda Dean tossed at him. The can hissed as he opened it. Dean was cramming hot-dog into his mouth like he was starving. Sam watched his brother watching the funhouse. He saw the way Dean absently stroked his gun as he gazed at the kids gathered in front of the blue and pink façade. A frown creased Dean's brow as he ate.

Three children had gone missing from this carnival; they'd been carved up like so much meat inside that funhouse. The fourth victim vanished from a play area only a couple of miles away from the carnival. Parents should be scared. They should be keeping their kids at home, safe, or at the very least supervising their every move. And yet the carnival was as popular as ever. A spell was the only explanation that made sense.

Dean checked his watch and Sam saw his frown deepen.

"That won't get him here any quicker," Sam pointed out unhelpfully.

"I know that," Dean answered tensely. His eyes flicked to Sam as he spoke, but then he went straight back to watching the children.

Sam had never seen Dean so determined, so focussed. It was almost as if he was watching his father, not his brother. Maybe that wasn't such a surprise. John trained Dean, after all, and Dean was always a keen hunter.

He wanted to ask what it had been like for Dean after he left. Leaving was selfish, Sam knew that when he did it, but he couldn't regret his choice. Still, what was life like for Dean now? Sam had seen the storm coming; that was one of the many reasons he'd needed to get away. While he was still at high school, the realities of the system forced John to retain some stability in their lives: a home, of sorts, for all it never lasted. Without that, Sam feared what their lives were going to become: a never-ending hunt, one monster after another, never stopping, always driving, only Dean and Dad for company... The vision scared the shit out of him. And he'd abandoned Dean to that life. He saw the scars in his brother now. Dean had changed.

But it wasn't just that. Sam knew there was something Dean hadn't told him about this hunt. Normally, Sam wouldn't let that lie. He would ask, and keep prodding. He'd drive Dean crazy with questions until he spilled whatever he was hiding. But that was then. This was a new Dean: a Dean who seemed as closed as their father always was. Sam didn't ask.

He passed Dean what was left of the soda.

It was a long, long day. They stayed at the carnival, mostly watching the funhouse, but every hour or so they walked around the field. By the time darkness began to fall, they both knew every inch of the place. They knew the faces of the cops patrolling the area. They knew every game and ride and the carnies running them.

Night changed the carnival to a kaleidoscope of noise and whirling light. Music boomed from speakers: a loud, rock beat to compete with the tunes of the carousel the din of bells ringing on rides and games, carnies shouting their constant patter and people holding shouted conversations because just talking wouldn't cut through the noise. People carried toys with spinning lights or glow-sticks; children – mostly older children, now – wore strings of glow-in-the-dark beads and crowned themselves with fluorescent hoops. The rides shone with lights, spinning and moving so that within the carnival itself Sam could see everything as clearly as by daylight. But it was a different place – a different energy from daytime. Older...darker.

They were on another circuit of the field when Sam saw the cops. There were two of them, one talking on a radio. Not an unusual sight, but Sam saw the cop's face as he listened to the radio, and he knew. He slapped Dean's arm, jerking his head toward the pair. "Dude. Five-oh."

Dean glanced over and his expression hardened. "Stay here," he ordered and before Sam could object Dean was gone, blending in with the crowd, following the two cops.

Sam swore under his breath and followed Dean. But Dean was already out of sight. He had to settle for moving through the crowd in the right direction, his eyes searching everywhere for some sign of his brother.

"I told you to wait!" Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him into the shadows behind one of the games.

"Yeah, well, I was never good at taking orders. What did you find out?"

Dean pulled out his phone, not looking at Sam. "A boy is missing. Mom's having hysterics, says the kid vanished in front of her eyes." He was pushing buttons on his phone as he spoke. He half-turned away from Sam. "Dad, it's me."

Why was Dean shutting him out? They were supposed to be a team. Dean knew better than to do this – at least in the middle of a hunt. Sam listened to Dean tell their father what he knew. He'd always given Dean shit about the way he relied on their father. Did John tell Dean to keep Sam out of the loop?

If you walk out that door, Sammy, don't come back. You walk out on your family now, you're not family any more.

"No!" Dean exclaimed. "No, Dad, the kid might be dead by then. You've gotta let me take care of this one." Dean looked at Sam, his expression determined, even angry. "Yes, I've got it," he said flatly. Dean turned the phone off. "Sam, let's go."

There was a fire exit at the rear of the funhouse. It became their entry route. Dean glanced around to be sure no one saw them as they slipped inside. He waved Sam ahead of him, closed the fire door behind them and overtook Sam, taking the steps two at a time. Sam followed as closely as he could. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Dean would be happier with their dad backing him up instead of Sam.

Well, Sam was all the backup he had.

There were fewer people in the funhouse this time, and all of them were older: teenagers, mostly. Sam could smell the incense, stronger than before, as he slipped behind the rope net. He dropped down into the space below and waited for Dean. He could hear a child crying. He drew his gun.

Dean dropped down at his side and Sam automatically shifted position so they could cover every corner of the space between them. Dean met his eyes. He didn't need to ask are you ready? – Sam understood. He thumbed the safety off on the gun he held and nodded.

Dean kicked the door open and they both burst through.

The smoke stung Sam's eyes. It wasn't just incense. A brazier stood there, glowing coals within it, and something that Sam hoped was just green wood smoking atop the coals. It filled the space with smoke, made it harder to see.

But the altar was still there, marked out by its black candles with their flickering flames. A figure stood before the altar, robed and hooded, his back to the brothers. Sam could still hear the child crying, but saw no sign of the boy. He took careful aim. He was the one with the regular bullets. Dean would need to save his special ammo for the demon.

He saw Dean's small nod. Sam fired. Three rounds, just as he'd practiced month after month when he was a kid. He knew his aim was good, but the bullets passed through the figure as if it were smoke.

"Illusion," Sam said grimly. Three bullets wasted. As he spoke, the hooded figure dissolved in front of his eyes. "Shit." How the hell were they supposed to fight when they couldn't rely on their own eyes?

How? Carefully. They moved in, back to back, covering every angle. Sam felt his eyes begin to tear up in the smoke. He blinked hard and kept up with Dean. It was like fighting through tear gas, but he knew how to do that. Try to breathe normally, and don't panic.

There was no sign of the magician or his demon. The boy was curled up on the ground beside the altar. His arms covered his blonde head, as if he expected something to fall on him, but as far as Sam could tell through the smoke, the boy wasn't hurt. Just scared to death and crying constantly, wordlessly.

"Dean," Sam said quietly.

"Give me your gun." Dean held out his hand and Sam passed him the gun. He waited while Dean positioned himself to cover their backs.

Sam crouched down to approach the boy. He held a hand out toward the blonde-haired child. "Hello. You're safe now. It's okay." He kept his eyes on the boy, concentrating on him. The poor kid was so scared...with good reason.

Invisible fingers grasped Sam's face, twisting his head back and to the left. He reacted instantly, thrusting an elbow into the space behind him even as he felt the sharp edge of cold steel at his throat. His elbow connected with something solid.

"Dean!" he gasped out. The unseen knife cut into his skin, but the touch of ghostly fingers was gone.

Dean was already there. He fired once into the space above Sam's head. "Where is he? I can't see him!"

"Just shoot!" Sam ducked down, getting out of Dean's line of fire. The boy tried to scramble up. Sam grabbed the boy and pulled him down, covering his body as best he could while the kid struggled against him.

Sam could feel his own blood flowing down his neck, soaking into his shirt.

Dean fired over his head, twice, three times.

A body clothed in a black robe fell, heavily, beside Sam and the boy. Until that moment, the magician hadn't been visible at all.

Sam swallowed his heart and started breathing again.

He felt Dean's hands on his body, helping him up. "Sammy? Sammy, are you okay?" His eyes widened. "Oh, shit, Sam..."

Sam covered the bleeding wound with his hand. "I think I'm okay." He struggled upright.

"You're bleeding."

"He tried to cut my throat. Of course I'm bleeding!" He looked at his hand, judging the amount of blood he was losing. He felt surprisingly calm about it. "It's shallow. Nothing to worry about. Is he dead?"

"I think so." Dean looked around at the fallen magician. Then he looked up. He stood and turned around in a slow circle. "Sam, get the kid out of here."

"I'm not leaving you..."

"Yes, you are. Get the kid to safety." Dean dug into a pocket and threw something at Sam. Sam caught it by reflex: the keys to the Impala. "Medkit's in the trunk. Patch yourself up. There's a can on the right side under my crossbow. Bring me that and as much salt as you can carry."

Sam nodded. "What's in the can?"

Dean smiled. "It ain't napalm, but it's almost as good. A home-made surprise. Now, go, Sam. Go!"

Sam scooped up the still-crying boy and ran for the exit. He shifted the boy in his arms, but he was going to need both hands to climb back up. He glanced back at Dean, then crouched down and set the boy on his feet. "My name's Sam," he said. "What's yours?"

The boy opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"It's okay," Sam said softly. "Everything's going to be okay. Just tell me your name."

"R-Robbie Burgess."

Sam smiled. "Okay, good. Now, Robbie, I need you to climb up on my back and hold on, okay? I'm gonna get you out of here and back to your mom." He leaned forward, patting his own back. "C'mon. Just hold on tight."

The boy did as he was told, wrapping his small arms around Sam's neck tight enough to choke him. Sam didn't tell him to ease off. He reached upward for a hand hold and hauled himself upward, leaving Dean behind.

Dean covered the magician with Sam's gun. He walked cautiously around the unmoving body. Was he really dead? Or was this another illusion?

He reached the magician's hand and kicked the knife away from it. The blade was stained with Sammy's blood. Dean stepped deliberately on the man's fingers. There was no reaction.

Okay. So far, so good. Dean crouched down beside the magician's head. Blood was pooled around his head, soaking into the dead ground beneath. Dean set the barrel of his gun against the back of the magician's skull and, using his free hand, felt for a pulse at his neck. He found nothing. He was tempted to blow the son of a bitch's brains out anyway, just to be sure...but John would tell him not to waste the bullets. So he straightened up and reached for his bottle of holy water.

He drew the bottle out of his pocket and it slipped from his hand as if the bottle were coated in oil. Icy fingers of fear traced down his spine. He abandoned the bottle and began to turn around, raising his gun.

"Stop." It was the voice of a child.

And Dean's body froze in place, mid-motion. It was just like playing statues as a kid, except this was involuntary. Dean tried to move. He struggled desperately to move. But his body remained utterly still.

"Turn around," the child's voice said clearly.

Dean found his body moving. His weight shifted, completing the motion he'd begun. His hand, holding the gun, hung limp at his side. His finger was still on the trigger but he couldn't do a damn thing with it.

He saw the child behind him at his body turned around. Dean expected to see the demon he'd killed before: the pretty, black-eyed girl with the tumbling golden curls. Instead he saw a boy.

He saw the same boy who had just left with Sam.

Exactly the same, right down to the grass stains on his pants...except for the eyes. This boy's eyes were black as oil.

Oh, god. Sam!

Dean didn't try to explain it to himself. He didn't care how this was possible. He knew only that he'd sent Sammy away, alone, with this thing. And Sam was unarmed now, and hurt.

The boy – the demon – took a step toward Dean. Just one step. Dean couldn't move. He couldn't raise the gun or reach for his holy water. Fuck this! He had to forget what he couldn't do...what could he do?

It was a demon... John said an exorcism wouldn't work, but maybe something similar would. Dean searched his memory for something – anything – that might save him. Dean never prayed; he had no faith in God and had never believed prayer would do any good. But the words that came to him were the words of a prayer. Dean couldn't move, but he could speak.

He chanted the words aloud. "Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna in die illa tremenda, quando caeli movendi sunt et terra..."^[1]

He thought he saw the demon flinch, but it recovered quickly. It laughed, high and clear and Dean wondered if he'd imagined that small flinch. It was standing over the magician's body. Dean watched, helpless to move as it stretched out a tiny hand over the body. The body rose from the ground and flipped over as if moved by unseen hands.

Holy crap! Dean's breath stuttered and he struggled to recall the next line. Latin was never his best language... "...dum veneris iudicare saeclum per ignem..."

Blood slowly disappeared from the magician's face, as if his skin were absorbing it. Dean watched in horror as a bullet extracted itself from the dead man's chest and rose into the air. And another.

"Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit atque ventura ira."

This time the flinch was clear. He hadn't imagined it! Dean watched the demon child scoop the bullets out of the air and step over the magician's body, advancing on Dean. He cursed himself for letting Sam out of his sight. He remembered the blood on Sam's neck. Please let Sammy be okay. He's gotta be okay.

"Dies irae, dies illa, calamitatis et miseriae, dies magna et amara valde."

The demon's mouth curled in a snarl. "It's not about him, Dean Winchester. He's marked already."

Dean didn't have time to process the words. "If you've hurt my brother, I swear to god..." He fought to lift the gun, to get it aimed. It didn't work. He couldn't move his hand. But his finger was still on the trigger and that moved. The gun went off, the report loud in the small space and the gun jerked in his hand. Dean felt the bullet hit the ground, a hair's breath away from his boot. Shit! Don't try that again!

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis." That was all he could remember of the Latin.

The face in front of him dissolved, the body, the clothing melting into a new shape. At first, Dean didn't understand. Then he recognised the boy now standing before him. He knew that dark, curly hair, the big, serious eyes. It was Sammy. Sammy at six years old. Sammy, his black eyes boring into Dean.

"I'm not going to hurt Sammy," the demon said, and the voice, too, was exactly the voice Dean remembered. "But you will."

Part Eight

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

Note:

[1] Dean is quoting from the requiem mass. A translation: "Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on that dread day, when the heavens and earth shall quake; when Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire. I am seized with trembling and I am afraid, until the day of reckoning shall arrive and the wrath to come. That day, a day of wrath, calamity and misery, the great day and most bitter. Rest eternal grant them, O Lord; and let light perpetual shine upon them."

FIC: Carnival of Souls (7/10)

CARNIVAL OF SOULS

Part Seven

no subject