T W O
Black as night it was.
But that was only because it was night and therefore it was black, curtsy of the clouds covering the bright moon, but forgetting to cover some stars whom peeked curiously through the veil at the Earth below. Especially at a small forest in North Dakota, where pain, panic and terror was the only energy in the night.
For below these stars was a man running through such forest, out of breath and terrified. Stumbling blindly through the skeleton hands of the trees. Every noise he heard made his head whip around wildly and with every stumble, his shoulder roared with pain as he felt hot, sticky blood stain his skin. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he pushed forward and continued to run, run, run and keep on running towards his destination.
He had to warn the others.
His ears picked up the sound of feet crunching leaves and twigs, and the steady heartbeats belonging to them. He begged his feet to go faster.
Just a little further...
Pushing branches and leaves out of the way of his face, he looked ahead of them and saw the foliage lessen and soon he was before a large clearing. Inside, on the edge of the other end of the clearing, imprisoned a worn, old, abandoned barn. Vines ensnared its walls, and moss blanketed its roof.
His face twitched into a tiny smile as he full-on sprinted towards it, passing a few trucks pulled up beside the barn. He was safe. They would get through this... like they had for centuries.
He finally slowed down when he met the big, wooden doors and stopped to frantically look over his shoulder to check if he could sense them.
Those damn Hunters.
Once he was sure he couldn't hear a faint flutter of a human heart, he shoved the doors open and slipped inside, slamming them shut again with a bang. His legs ached horribly as they shook with fear under him. Doubling over, he tried to catch his breath as he heard familiar rushing footsteps pace over to him.
"Eric, what's going on?" A well-known voice asked.
Eric looked up at Michael, the Nest's leader —had been for decades—and then at the the others around him, all curious faces gazing at him and his bleeding wounds.
"H-hunters..." Eric panted out through shaky breathes. "They caught me with some Dead Man's Blood, while I was tracking down food... I-I only just managed to get away." He gulped loudly.
The others surrounding Michael shifted nervously from one foot to the other and gave each other wondering looks. Some had wide grins, fists clenching and unclenching, second teeth already showing; others were silently moving into the shadows, not ready to fight. There were so few of them left.
Michael breathed deeply, looking around at the dusty barn they called home, then to the bodies tied to posts; their food. "We have dealt with Hunters before, Eric. We have always gotten by." He spread out his arms to gesture to the others and how much their nest had grown. "This should be no different," he said calmly, though his second set of teeth were eager to show his irritation.
Eric shook his head. He whimpered slightly out of fear. "These aren't ordinary Hunters," his voice barely audible.
Michael's brow furrowed questionably. "What? Who are they?"
Eric looked Michael right in the eyes. Eric already knew that they were full of sorrow and hopelessness, but he didn't dare break the contact. He swallowed deeply, as everyone seemed to hold their breath to hear. He breathed out a single word; "Win-Winchesters."
Michael's face paled and he gulped audibly. Eyes wide, he looked around at his nest and then at their food supply. He cursed under his breath. "Everyone, barricade every possible entry. Don't let anyone in and at first chance, run to the trucks and get out of here." He walked down the barn and looked at the terrified, tearstained humans tied to the posts, and glanced at the two young women they had caught a few days ago. "Take these two. It's better we travel light —we can feed off them until we get off their scent." He walked to the back door and started piling anything against it, in a wild, frantic manner.
One of the more battle-ready nest members creased his brow and stepped forward. "Why, Michael? What's so different with these Hunters, that they cause us to go running for the hills?" He chuffed. "Like you said: we have dealt with Hunters before—"
"These are the Winchesters, Daniel!" Michael cut in. "These two brothers aren't like any other Hunters that we have come across. These are Hunters who have saved this damned world from destruction time and time again! These two Hunters have dealt with Angels and Demons, and things that we can't even dream, and have always come out on top!" He walked away from the door and faced Daniel. "These two Hunters were chosen by God and Lucifer themselves. Heck, they even have been to Heaven, Hell and even Purgatory and back! What chance do mere vampires have against them? We are already a dying race."
Daniel's jaw tightened. "We can fight —perhaps kill them. Worth a shot. If they are what you say they are, then there is no point running."
Michael was about to say something back, but suddenly the sound of two sets of heartbeats pounded in his ears. His and everyone else's heads whipped round to the barn door, and they all breathed deeply, taking in that one smell. That beautiful, intoxicating perfume of a vampire's ambrosia. Blood.
It's too late...
Though the smell of blood was tantalising their senses, they weren't excited. Their faces paled and Michael took in a breath. "It's them." He looked around and wondered what to do. Nothing really to do. Can't run now, can't hide, can't barricade themselves in now.
He looked around at some of the nervous members of his nest scramble to the doors and tried to block them. He held up a hand to them. "Leave it," he commanded. He looked at Daniel, then at the shaking and bleeding Eric. "It's too late now." His second teeth started to show.
"Wh-what do we do?" Eric nervously asked.
Michael looked behind him and at the humans. "First kill the spares, get them angry. It will be easier to kill them if they are in a rage. And these humans... Well, they're worthless now." He nodded at Daniel. "And then we fight."
*
At this same moment two figures were rushing through the moonlight, that now shone its face through the freckled sky. They ran, brushing past the fingers of trees that caught their faces, and pushed past the hairs of shrubs that tried to trip them.
They tried to make their way through the winding forest floor, syringes of Dead Man's Blood rattling in their pockets and both of their large knives glistened dangerously and mysteriously in tight-gripped hands. The shine of red marked their machetes and told the story of their time with the creature they were hunting.
Well, they were Hunters after all.
Slowly the forest began to lessen and one Hunter caught sight of a blood speckled tree. The blood looked fresh. He flipped his long brown hair out of his face and continued running, knowing now that they were close to the nest.
They pushed another round of tree branches out of their way and were suddenly faced with a large clearing. A neglected barn with trucks parked outside it, was perched at the other side of the clearing. Both of them came to a halt and glanced at each other.
"Yahtzee," one said to the other, slightly out of breath, but green eyes shining. The other clenched his jaw and gripped his blade tighter in his grasp. All he was worried about were the kidnapped humans inside.
Hopefully they were still alive.
The green eyed man turned to his brother. "You ready, Sammy?" He asked, shuffling from one foot to another in anticipation.
Sam faced his older brother and faintly smiled. He breathed deeply. "Always, Dean." He eyed the big barn door. "You want to knock?"
*
Michael watched the barn door. They were out there... he could sense them.
"NO! PLEASE, NO! SOMEONE HELP! NO!" The scream of one of the young humans sliced through the air.
Michael snapped his head back to what was going on. Apparently, the girl was putting up a good fight against the vampire who was about to rip open her throat, and in the struggle, had wriggled out of her gag.
Michael stormed up to the girl, waved a hand to command the vampire to go to the next human, grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her to his face. "Quiet, bitch!" He seethed at her, watching as tears soaked her cheeks.
She immediately bit her lip and sobbed quietly to herself. A muffled sound of begging and screams from the other humans, masked the din. He realised that a few heartbeats had stilled and screaming voices silenced, never to be heard again, but the humans remaining, replaced those voices with wild screams of terror at the sight of their kin being slaughtered. He looked around and saw two of the seven blood bags with their throats lying next to them, and another five struggling against their bounds.
"HELP ME! HELP!" The girl he was holding, screamed. She banged her roped hands against his chest, but it had no effect. It only made Michael grind his sharp teeth together. In a flash he smacked his hand against her mouth and immediately silenced her cries. He pressed his fingers against her jaw and cheeks, digging in his fingernails, causing her to bring her hands to his to pry his fingers away. He watched the pain fill her eyes.
Michael almost smiled at this poor and desperately stupid attempt of attack. How pathetic. How useless... How human. "You better be quiet girly, or do you want me to make you watch as I tear away your flesh, hm?"
In response to his threat, the girl's face twisted with foreign anger and a spark lit up in her eyes. The fight or flight mechanism seemed to have kicked in and she had obviously chosen fight. She started to thrash and kick and scream. Suddenly, she bit down on Michael's hand and he yelped out in surprise and pain, pulling his hand away from her mouth so she could cry bloody murder.
"WHY YOU—" Michael cried, grabbing her by the throat.
Michael was about to sink his teeth into her neck and rip out her throat when all the sudden—
BAM!
The barn door was flung open to revealed two men, layered in plaid and leather, wielding large machetes. Their faces were stone; no emotion, no fear, no nothing. Just faces as cold and hard as ice, framing eyes made out of steel that were battered and bruised. Having seen more than anyone could ever know, it wasn't a surprise.
Both were so truly terrifying just by the seer emptiness in them, that everyone stopped and stared. Time slowed down. Everyone, be it beast or man, looked on at the two of them —with awe or fear, none could tell. They all just knew that these two had seen everything and anything you could put into words. They had this aura around their heads like halos... or perhaps they were devil horns.
They were paradoxes to each other. Yin and Yang.
Always balancing on a thread so thin it could be a hair, between life and death, Heaven and Hell, family and destiny. They were opposites and equals to each other, harmonising in a way only a bond in blood can. It was just the question of which had more darkness in them than the other.
Team Free Will had just entered the building.
"Knock-knock!" Dean yelled, bringing time back into its normal fast pace frenzy, getting ready for a fight that was inevitably about to happen. His brother, Sam, was just the same. But his eyes didn't dart to the vampires that were fixated on him and his brother —with fangs exposed and eyes filled with death— but to the people who were tied to the posts, and the ones with their throats separated from their limp bodies.
Dean noticed too, and the Winchesters' eyes both filled with anger and vengeance. Without saying a word, they charged forward into the fray.
And the nest met them with feral hostility.
Dean was the first to separate head from the body from an eager, inexperienced vamp, who came at him from his side —arms all over the place, trying its hardest to catch Dean. But it was all too easy for Dean to just quickly twist away from its hands and swing his machete swiftly. Cutting its head clean off.
Sam was next, fighting a vamp that was a tad more experienced. With teeth bared, and hunger unquenchable, it dodged Sam's first attempt at a deadly swing, clawed his face with its fingernails in a vicious swipe and then kicked him square in the chest. Sam doubled over and bit the inside of his cheek to stop from crying out. He ignored the pain though, and just as the vamp was about to go for his bent over neck, Sam adjusted the grip on his blade and swung upward, as he stood up, using his height as an advantage. The blade dug deep, cutting through the vamp's right shoulder all the way to the left side of its neck. Its head landed first. The body second.
After seeing their fellow nest members massacred in such a professional way, the ones that had watched —analysing their prey— were more hesitant to attack. Sam and Dean bunched together, shoulder to shoulder, unblinking eyes focusing on the monsters that were slowly circling them.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, without looking at Sam.
Sam let out a breath of amusement, making his cheek sting with pain. "Yeah, never better Dean, just peachy!" He replied sarcastically. His eyes watched the nest slowly circling them; taking in their every move, as the brothers were with them. Sam then noticed a figure at the back, watching intently, but not moving —just watching. The figure's shoulders were low, meaning that he didn't feel as guarded as the others, and his posture reeked of a sense of nobility.
The nest leader.
"Dean, three o'clock," Sam uttered, eyes fixated on both the circling vamps and the one at the back.
Dean turned his head to where Sam had said and saw the lone monster. Dean squinted as he noticed the subtle movement of the leader's wrists —gestures to direct where his nest should attack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large, muscular vamp, nearest to Sam, nod his head briefly. Dean saw the flash of a blade being uncovered.
Dean's eyes widened. "Sam, look ou—!"
Before Dean could even finish his sentence, the vamp had sprang forward and bombarded into Sam, knocking him to the floor hard and painfully. At the same time, the ones circling let out a feral snarl and attacked as well, aiming for Dean, trying to keep him away from helping Sam.
Sam's breath left him as the heavy vamp landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Sam felt the numbness of his head and body bang against the ground, then the pain started to trickle through. He couldn't help but let his eyes squeeze tight and a pain-filled grunt leave with his thin breath, before his eyes snapped open to reveal to him the vamp glaring down at him. It raised its arm high —knife in hand— aiming for Sam's neck, but before it could make a deadly hit, Sam quickly rose his free arm and blocked the attack.
Dean caught sight of the vamp who was on top of his brother and wanted to rush over to help him, but his path was blocked by two vamps in front of him, and he knew that three were behind him.
He slumped his shoulders. "Well, this is unfair," he noted, smirk on his face, as though he wasn't in any sort of danger. "All of you, verses only me? I don't think this is fair for you guys, I mean, 'cause, well..." He rose his arms in the air and pointed down at himself. "I'm Dean frickin' Winchester."
"DEAN!" He heard his brother shout in the background.
He lowered his arms and sighed. "Alright," he moaned, eyes rolling. He turned to the one behind him and spread out his hands. "Siblings, amiright?" Then in a flash, while the vamp still looked confused, he kicked into action. Gone was the joker and in his stead was a dead-eyed warrior.
Dean kicked a vamp in front of him square in the chest, stopping its attack. He then leaned back to dodge a swipe from an other vamp, only to be caught by one behind him. He could feel the heat of its breath against his ear. The rancid smell of festering blood. The sharpness of its teeth brush against his skin.
Dean knew all too well the increase of his heart as he wondered if this was to be the son-of-a-bitch to finally kill him, but he pushed through those thoughts —after all, he had a little brother to protect. So, before the vamp had any chance to tear out his throat, Dean elbowed its ribs and it released him; doubling over to clutch its stomach, giving Dean the time to twist round and sever its neck.
And then, once Dean took a moment to breathe, it was the same thing all over again.
Sam, out of the corner of his eye, saw that Dean was a bit preoccupied to help him, so Sam managed to muster up all of his strength to try and push the vamp off of him and keep the knife away. He used his core strength to try and sit up and throw off the vamp, and then, as quick as a flash, managed to manoeuvre his hands to twist the blade out of the vamp's hands, unfortunately though, he didn't catch it in time, and it went skidding across the barn floor.
The vamp snarled at the move, and bent forward, trying to use his weight to his advantage. Sam pushed with all his might against him, sweat beginning to bead off his brow and muscles to ache because of the strain. It was then that the vamp suddenly squeezed his throat with his free hand, cutting off his air, then regained his other to help strangle Sam, causing Sam to get thrown to the floor again.
Sam gasped deeply, trying to get some oxygen into his body, but the vamp only squeezed tighter, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Sam writhing as he suffocated.
"They all think you and your brother are immortal, you know. Can't be killed, they say," he chuckled mockingly, "But you are still just another human... still so weak and still just a sack full of blood." He licked his lips. "What even makes you so special?"
Sam managed to turn his lips into a small smile. "Yeah... I don't know, just lucky I guess," he wheezed. "But better a human than a blood-sucking, bottom feeder like you." Sam smiled, only to have the smile washed from his face when the vamp squeezed harder, hissing and growling as he did.
"Well your lucky streak has just run out, boy. And I am going to see to that myself!" He hissed, opening his mouth to show his sharp teeth. He could kill Sam right here, but he wanted to see the breath leave him until he was on the brink of death, then drain him while he was still alive.
Sam's fingers tried to prise the vamp's hands away, but they were like a vice. His eyes darted around his surroundings where black spots had began dancing before him. He saw Dean swipe another head from a body, trying —slowly— to help him. He saw the nest leader smirk at the scene playing out before him. And then Sam's eyes caught the shine of his own blood-soaked knife on the floor on his right side.
He could hear his own pounding heartbeat in his ears, and his head began to swim, but he forced himself to concentrate on both the blade and the vamp. This was just another day at the office, he kept telling himself. Just another crap-filled, vamp-infested, hell-sucking day at the office. Sam unfortunately knew he had been through worse.
The vamp then tried to sink its teeth into Sam's neck, and it only in the knick of time, did Sam raise his forearm and pushed against the vamp's neck. In his swimming vision, he saw his arm shake with the strain and will-power it took him to do such a task. His eyes then flicked to the knife lying beside him. His brain split in two and tried to focus on both the blade and the strength it was taking him to keep the vamp away. With his free arm, he stretched every cell to touch the hilt of the blade, and tense the other to stop the vamp. Sam knew that the vamp was slowly winning. It was only a matter of moments before its weight would get the better of him, or he would lose his strength entirely. Lucky, the only good thing that came from this, was that the vamp's grip on his neck was loosening, meaning that Sam was able to take thin gulps of air.
Sam's fingers still reached —playing with the hilt, but the more he tried to pull it towards him, the more it got pushed away. His arm still blocked, but he could see that it wasn't going to be enough, so his brain scrambled to come up with a plan. His first thought was the hope that Dean would help, but by the cries of anguish and ferocity, he knew that wouldn't be the case. Then one thought was brought to mind. His heart sank.
It was idiotic. Stupid. An enormous risk. But well... when in his life wasn't there a risk?
His stomach churned as he worked through the details and kinks. He knew he had to time it well. He tried to take another handfuls of air, to clear his black-spotted vision.
Here goes nothing...
One, he counted, two... three!
Suddenly he released the vamp's weight on his forearm and let the vamp fall, just as he jerked his head and torso out of the way, causing the vamp to crash to the barn floor. The sudden movement to the right, had shifted his body, so that now his fingers grasped the hilt of the blade and —with a twist of his body, a snarl on his face, and eyes animalistic— he brought the blade down to the barn floor and through the vamp's neck with a thud.
The grip on the vamp's fingers went limp, and Sam consumed the air as though he was starved. He sat up and a flurry of coughs rose out of him, scratching against his sore throat, which he wrapped a hand around. His wide eyes took in what was going on around him and saw Dean kick a vamp in the chest, elbowing the one behind him, then turning and sent another head flying across the room.
Dean saw his brother precariously sit up and his heart thudded with sudden relief, as he saw that his little brother was okay and alive. Dean began to realise that because of what they do, he would always be tense and on edge waiting for the day when he wouldn't be so lucky. But then again, both of them had survived that anyway...
"Sam!" Dean called, severing another head from body —killing the last of the wave that had attacked him; the rest retreated in the shadows —moving to the back of the barn where Michael was pacing.
At the sound of his name being called, Sam turned his head to Dean and nodded, signalling that he was alright. He then grabbed his blade and wearily got to his feet, blinking a bit to try and get rid of the shrinking black spots that still danced across his view, just in time to catch sight of a vamp coming right towards him. And then it was back to the job at hand.
Michael's hands twitched and shook by his sides as he saw his nest fall to the Winchesters' feet. The ones that were of higher ranks and so protected him, took a step forward, ready to attack, but Michael rose his hand to stop them.
Sam made his way to his brother's side, and saw that Dean had a swollen jaw and blooded lip. Dean kept his eyes on the nest leader and Sam joined his glower at the unholy creature. Michael glared back at them.
And for a moment —a thin, insignificant moment— they wondered about each other. Past, present, and future events that had brought them here, in this barn, staring into each others eyes and pondering over which of them were really more terrifying than the other. Which of them were really the beasts behind the legends. Which were the ones that were really deprived of their humanity.
Which were of them were truly the hunters... and which were truly the hunted.
Michael smirked, shaking his head slowly. His eyes fell on the limp bodies of his nest and his shoulders drooped in mourning, but his jaw clenched in anger. He opened his mouth thinking of what he was going to say. "So... You're the two brothers," he chose each word carefully and let them roll out of in his voice —low and rumbling. He slowly took a step to the right, his nest following. Sam and Dean took a step to the left and they began to circle each other. Michael smiled ruefully. "The Winchesters in the flesh and... blood."
Dean chuffed. "And I know you where? A low budget gangster movie? Maybe Bugsy Malone?" He and Sam took another step to the left.
Michael chuckled. He smiled in amusement, but looked at Dean with annoyed and piercing eyes. "You're funny. Dean, is it? They said you would be." His eyes then landed on Sam, and he studied his figure and height. "And you must be lil' ol' Sammy. Well, they weren't lying when they said you were tall. Your poor, goddamned, whore of a mother must have had some trouble bringing you into the world, didn't she?" Michael's grin widened when he saw Dean's face darken, Sam's breath to increase and both of them gripped tighter to their blades.
Sam's jaw clenched, but he spat out, "who's 'they'? Who told you about us?"
Michael's feet came to a halt, as did the Winchesters', and the vamps. Michael spread out his arms. "Why, I have —well, rather, had— a large nest." His expression grew dark and threatening. "We have friends. We have connections —alliances. Like a hydra; when you cut off one head, yah yah yah."
He and his followers started walking the other way. So did Sam and Dean. "And news does spread when that news contains the two hunters who have done all you h, seen all what you have seen. One would have to be living under a rock for the last ten years, to not know who the Winchesters are."
"Well then, if you know who we are, then you must know what we do to low-life, blood-sucking monsters such as you, don't ya?" Dean snarled, running his thumb over his blade. "So why are we here have such a pleasant chat... that is, unless, you think you have some leverage against us?"
"Oh, I know I have some leverage."
"Pray tell."
"Well, you know those friends I have mentioned? Well, those friends consist of many a creature from lore and legend. And we friends are very loyal to each other... if you were to kill us all, then they will seek vengeance." Michael smiled triumphantly. "So I suggest you let us go and no more shall have die." Michael glanced down at the head of one of his nest members. His heart sank and face fell. "You have already caused me a great pain."
Sam and Dean stopped walking and their blank eyes bore into Michael's. The brothers stole a glance at each other, before Dean spoke in a gravely tone; "Yeah, I don't think so, Twilight. You see, if what you say is true, then that just means it saves us the trouble of seeking out all your 'friends' and hunting them down like the monsters they are."
Sam, out of the corner of his eye, saw the people tied to the posts. He saw what they did to the people he could not have saved. and his blood boiled from even the thought of letting these creatures go. He breathed deeply, but that did not stop the rage from flowing through his veins.
Michael's smirk faltered and he had suddenly realised the meaning of the word rubatosis as he heard his heart hammering against his ribcage. He tried to mask how he felt by swallowing heavily, but they seemed to get caught in his throat. That was his only leverage. His fists tightened and he sighed deeply. He couldn't help but notice two different sets of eyes on him —the humans; the fear in the ones he had captured and the hatred in his hunters, and the clouded, non-blinking eyes of his nest members.
Michael stole a glance at the girl —the girl who had wriggled out of her gag earlier. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, her hair matted, and voice unheard as she watched the events unfold before her. He could tell that she wanted to live, but who doesn't?
He then turned to the dead vamp by his feet —her hair had mixed with the blood and dirt. Her face was white and splattered with her own blood, but her features looked calm; they looked at peace. And it was only her glassy dead eyes that seemed to grip hold of him. They seemed to stare into his very soul —if vampires even had them— and question him, his nature.
They were both the judging eyes of the dead.
And the hoping eyes of the living.
He looked at his feet and made up his mind. "Well then, if that is the case..." he rose his head and smiled widely at the two Winchesters, revealing his second teeth. He had a wild, psychotic gleam in his predatoristic eyes as his voice reverberated like a growl, "Let's have some fun then."
And before Sam and Dean could fully understand what was happening, the last of Michael's nest was upon them in a flurry of fangs and battlecries. Sam just managed to keep his balance, when a vamp lunged at him. In a swift movement, he severed its head. But as it fell, he didn't notice the other vamp hiding behind the body as it fell, Sam only had time to widen his eyes, before a punch hit him in the jaw. He stumbled slightly, but regained his balance —feeling the anger mask the pain he had grown to know like it was an old friend.
Dean was less lucky and after he had swiped off a head of a vamp, he tried for another, but the vamp in question was too fast and before he could find his footing, he was tackled off his feet and was driven into the barn pillar with a painful thud. Dean felt a sharp pain and heard a slight snap that told him that two or more of his ribs were broken from awkwardly hitting the edge of the wooden pillar. Immediately, white hot pain surged through his torso and seemed to blind him for a second of the vamp who was holding him by the shoulders, ready to slam him against the pillar again. Sweat glistened on his brow and it took Dean quick, deep breaths to deal with the pain.
That was what his father had taught him anyway. "Don't you show your pain, Dean. Don't you give them the satisfaction of seeing the pain fill your eyes. They wont care. They wont help. They will just play it to their advantage, because you have shown your weakness. Do not give them that advantage. Don't you show weakness."
The vamp was just about to slam him against the pillar again, when Dean —pushing through the pain, his father's words in his head— shot his arms up to knock off the vamps hands, then gripped its elbows tight, pulling down and at the same time, kneed him in the face, breaking its nose.
Quickly, while the vamp was down screaming, clutching its nose as blood streamed out through its fingers like a fountain, Dean picked up his blade. The vamp saw and tried to get up and away, but only got to its knees when— slink! Thud.
Dean straightened and finally let the pain reach his face, and he grimaced and winced as he gingerly placed a hand over his right side. "Ah, you mother—" he spat as accidentally placed more pressure than needed on the wound. He hadn't even noticed that his head was also bleeding.
By the sound of another thud, Dean looked up and saw Sam holding his ground, but could obviously see that he needed some help when he got punched in the face. So Dean swallowed the pain, readjusted his grip on his blade, took a breath and ran to his aid.
Don't you show weakness.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood as the fight continued. For Sam and Dean, it felt as though they had been fighting for hours, but really it had been a mere ten minutes before it was only down to two vamps; a well experienced vamp —who had probably seen battle after battle like this, being that he had been alive for a century or two— and the nest leader, whom had been smart and had allowed himself to be protected, but still attack with calculated movements. Michael looked at his last surviving nest member, Daniel. He was Michael's best fighter and hunter, his most loyal.
Michael and him shared a glance as they circled the Winchesters, as they did too, their chests heaving laboriously. Both of them exchanged as sort of acknowledging gaze. To them it said, 'if this is to be the last time, then farewell. See you in the infinite battleground of Purgatory.' But for the Winchesters it was a battle plan, so as though thinking as one, the brothers sprang forward when the monsters least expected it, and they were heading for Michael.
Daniel could see out of the corner of his eye, and he whipped his head round to them. Michael had his head turned to Daniel so he couldn't see. It felt as though it was second nature for Daniel to run forward and shove Michael out of the way just in time for Dean's blade to send him straight to Oblivion.
Michael watched as the last of his nest fell to the dusty ground. His wide eyes seemed to be glued to Daniel's body as it fell. And his ears were deaf to all but the dead weight hitting the floor. He had died for him. He always was the most loyal vampire he had ever had.
Despair and distraught hit him first, then a white-hot rage and vengefulness rose out of him like lava, erupting his features; shaded and disfigured with an animalistic vendetta. He sprang forward at the brothers, eyes fixated on the man who killed his nest —his family. He first slammed Sam against the wall with such force that left him unconscious, and before Dean had even recovered from his swing, Michael was upon him, and had tackled him to the ground.
Michael's hands gripped tight to his neck and Dean was still in shock to what was happening, he had all but forgotten about his knife. With one hand still holding his throat, Michael's fist pounded against Dean's cheek and skull. "YOU!" He roared continuing to connect his fist to Dean's cheek. "You took everything from me!"
Dean, now disorientated and overwhelmed with pain, could do nothing but merely try to block the attacks that were coming thick and fast. Though blurry vision, he saw his own blade in Michael's hand, and saw how it was raised high above his head. He saw the light catch it and the blood make the metal gleam. He closed his eyes, waiting for the final impact.
Once again, Dean thought about the end. He thought of his brother and Cas... Cas... How he never got to tell Cas—
But with the sound of metal meeting flesh, he opened his eyes —thoughts evaporating— and saw the life leave Michael's eyes, the blade to fall from his grasp, and his head roll away from his body, leaving the body to land on Dean. He looked up and saw Sam out of breath, a gash by his right eye, and blade almost falling out his grasp.
"You okay?" He asked.
Dean replied with a stiff nod as he pushed the body off of him. He sat up and winced as he forgot about his broken ribs, but rose a hand to his face to gently prod at it —wanting to make sure that the damage was only minor, of which it was.
He hadn't notice Sam go to free the people tied to the posts, until he heard the 'thank you's and the crying and sobbing. He went to help him and looked up as he saw Sam untied the girl who had already had her gag off, and immediately she flung herself into Sam's arms and wept onto his shoulder.
"Hey, it's okay," he said, a bit stunned. "It's over."
"Thank you..." She turned away from his shoulder and to Dean. She looked between them with wide, tearful eyes. "Thank you both so much."
Dean smiled and nodded, then turned to the four other people —all shaking, all wide eyed, all saying thank you— and went to see if any of them were hurt. But luckily, only the man with an gash on his head from where he was first abducted was majorly injured.
Then two, lifeless bodies caught Dean's eyes. One was a middle aged man, probably with a wife, kids, a white picket fence outside their suburban house, things Dean couldn't afford to have, but the other... the other was a young girl. He sighed as he knelt down to close the eyes of the girl, who he guessed was starting her first year of college. His mind created another universe, another life where she would have been able to study. Maybe she was to become to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or maybe she would have been the first lady president? But now... now she was lying on the ground of a dusty old barn, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, her throat beside her. And that man... that man probably had kids wondering where he had gone.
Dean swallowed to try and stop his heart from aching too much. It didn't work.
Sam saw his brother's sorrow and moved to place a hand on his shoulder. "There was nothing you could have done, Dean," he said in a grave voice. He had forgotten how many times he had said or heard that phrase.
Dean stood up slowly, grimacing as he did, but kept his eyes on the girl. "Yeah... I know." He faced Sam and gestured to the trembling group behind him. "Take them down to the hospital —hot-wire one of the trucks so you can fit them all. I'll... I'll take care of things here."
Sam nodded and turned to the group. Once explaining what was happening and how they should not mention him or his brother, he herded them to the trucks and with the wheezing sound of an engine fading into the night, Dean took a moment to breathe. He took a moment to let the ache overwhelm him; to let his fingers shake and eyes water. But then that moment ended, so it was back to reality.
He cleaned up; dug the graves, wrapped the human bodies in white sheets that he had found in the back and place them gently into a grave fit enough for two. He gathered up all the missing pieces of vamp and shoved them into another mass grave. Then he sprinkled the bodies —both human and vamp— with salt and lighter fluid. And with a small match, he watched the bodies burn. The flames licking the dead until they consumed them with its vibrant light contrasting the great dark of night.
Dean watched as the embers flew into the night. He always liked to think they looked like fireflies, dancing in the thin breeze that nipped at Dean's nose. Dean watched as clouds cleared above his head and the stars brightly showed themselves to Dean. It was a clear night, and Dean felt as though his breath was almost taken from him as he stared into the infinity above his head.
What a perfect night. It was peaceful, quiet, with nothing but the whisper of wind through trees and the hum of the nightlife could be heard. But the cackle of the fire brought his gaze back to the combusting bodies. A ghost of a smile bit at his lips as he thought of what a perfect night it was to be cremated. In a way, he wished they could see the majesty they were under. But then again, he wished he didn't have to cremate them at all.
You saved five lives today, Dean. That's a good number. His thoughts reassured him, but it didn't stop that one voice say, But seven would have been better.
*
Two weeks passed since the nest of Michael fell, and true to his word, Michael's alliances did seek vengeance on the brothers. And bands of many a monster made sure that the brothers would know of their hatred for them. But try as they might, and even with the amount of anger and hatred in them, they were no match for Sam and Dean.
So while they hunted, the Men of Letter's bunker was dark and quiet. Its 1920's look of supernatural mechanics and structure gave the haven a look of calmness and mystery in the shadows. The faint beat of blinking lights on the control panels and the breathing whir of motors moving gave the place the feel of it being somewhat alive.
But in the dark, empty night, the sound of an engine roaring echoed through the bunker like a yawn. The sound of a door being unlocked and the wheezing whine of it opening were like eyes opening. And murmured voices becoming louder and louder with each step of foot were like a heart slowly returning out of its lento tempo and awakening the beast.
"Sam, it was your own fault! I had that son-of-a-bitch all taken care of without you bombarding into the frickin' thing and breaking your wrist!" Dean exclaimed, walking into the hall of the bunker and switching on some lights causing the whir of the machines to become more distinguished as they warmed up. As he walked down the stairs, he turned back to his brother, who was clutching hold of his left wrist, with a wincing, pained expression. "You were lucky to just break a wrist!"
Sam rolled his eyes and said, "Dean, you did not have that werewolf. It was pounding on you like no tomorrow, so I saved your ass; you're welcome! God, you are being such a mother-hen lately, You know, you don't have to be on my back about everything!"
They had gotten to the bottom of the stairs and Sam had sat in one of the chairs in the library while Dean had gone to the kitchen to grab some icepacks and some beer, but when hearing Sam's remark, he stuck his head around the door and gave Sam a scolding gaze. "Oh, c'mon Sam, someone has to look after you. I mean, remember that time where I let you do what you like and you ended up passing out in my car! My car! You needed those few days locked in your room." Dean would like to say he was joking about the last bit, but he had a stubborn little brother.
Sam sat up and rose his arms —well, arm— and Dean went back to the kitchen. "It was only for a second, and you know it! And like you've never done it! If anything, with your drinking and complete lack of a balanced diet, I should be the one locking you in your room!" Sam called after him.
Dean returned and handed Sam an icepack and a beer. "Hey, I let you drive my Baby so you have to follow my rules, and if you nearly crash my Baby, that is the sign you need more then a hours sleep." He smirked, walking around the back of Sam and ruffling his hair in the process —much to the younger brother's annoyance. He collapsed into the chair opposite, resting his feet on the polished wood and flipped through a book that was left in a stack.
"Jerk."
"Bitch. And what do you mean I don't have a balanced diet? There's lettuce in burgers, right?"
The brothers sat there for a while, talking and squabbling between them, but, isn't that what siblings are meant to do? They would argue and disagree and drive each other crazy, but they still cared for each other. They were family, and every family knows that there will be time that the days will be long, the arguments bitter, and eyes narrow and cold, but there is still the sense of protection, of the knowledge of a bond in blood.
Their bickering ceased and their eyes turned to the stairwell as the door was opened, to reveal a man in a long tan trench coat. He was a short man with a sort of weathered, but youthful; almost childish face, and big piercing eyes that were, to be honest, the most bluest eyes anyone could have known. But that could just be the the Angel's Grace shining through. People always say that the eyes are the gateways to the soul.
"Hey, Cas," Dean greeted, a smile playing on his lips.
Castiel, Angel of Thursday, Solider of God, and Angel of solitude and tears, looked down at the pair of humans and immediately noticed the injures. He looked at Sam's arm especially and saw the white blood cells already working overtime to heal his broken wrist. Cas gave the brothers a stern look, and his wings fell at the sight of them all battered and bruised. But they didn't know; they couldn't see his damaged, featherless wings, or, for that matter, see his True-Form at all. They just saw his vessel, Jimmy Novak.
"What was it this time?" He asked in a low rumbling voice, that was unexpected for a man of his physique. Castiel had always made sure his voice was low enough for human ears to detect ever since he had first tried to talk to Dean in his true voice and had almost melted his brain.
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and they looked down at their hands. "Uh, a werewolf pack," Dean replied, pawing at his swollen eye. "They were pissed, I give them that."
Cas rolled his eyes, but lifted the side of his mouth into a crooked smile. He walked down the stairs and to the brothers. First he healed Sam; taking his time to look at all the cuts to work out what should be healed first, then he rested his palm on Sam's forehead and thought of one thing: Heal.
A white, bright light shone out of the angel's palm and engulfed Sam's head. The brothers didn't seem alarmed though, and Sam only closed his eyes because of the brightness, while Dean just continued to sip his beer, watching the light show.
The light faded and Cas removed his palm from Sam's head. Sam looked down at his wrist and cautiously rolled it, stretching out his fingers and hand, making sure everything was in working order, which it was. Sam smiled happily and looked up at Cas, who was walking round to Dean. "Thanks, Cas," he said sincerely. It was always a good thing that you're friends with an Angel of the Lord.
Cas smiled back at him, before turning back to Dean. Cas always found it a bit strange when he would heal Dean, because every time his skin would touch his, there was a sort of tingle in his fingertips —a spark of human energy colliding with angelic Grace. When this first happened, Cas thought it was because of when he rose his soul out of Hell, his power had somehow seeped into Dean's energy, causing the two to be intwined. But now... well, Cas didn't know.
Dean closed his eyes when the bright white light of Cas' power blinded him, and in a matter of moments every atom in his body felt refreshed. He opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times, stretching his face that only a minute before was covered in black bruises, gory cuts, and swollen skin, but now was back to its original self.
Dean grinned. "Aw, Cas, you must be our guardian angel or something!" He teased, knowing that it would cause Cas to give him a bitch-face of look.
And in three, two, one, there it was! Right on Cas' face. The look had always reminded Dean of the gift they gave to Claire on her birthday. He believed the kids today call it, 'Grumpy Cat'.
Dean began to chuckle, but muffled it by raising his beer to his lips. Cas rolled his eyes, but again, a smile emerged on his lips.
The news, police unexplained occurrences, and hunting connections were quiet. There was not a monster or ghost or paranormal phenomenon to be investigated, so the bunker was loud and jolly. Full of stories and beer and the somewhat caring knowledge that tonight they weren't worrying about saving the world yet again.
It was just two human brothers and an Angel having normal —well, normal for them— conversations about the past and the present... the little things, you know? Like how on the way to a hunt, Dean had spilt some soda down his pants and had to walk to a crime scene looking like he had peed himself. Now that did cause Castiel to chuckle and the lines around his eyes to crinkle as he sat back in his chair and for Dean to smack Sam on the arm for sharing his embarrassment, before he too would laugh.
If you were to be watching this scene unfold, you would think it was just a group of friends telling each other stories, but that was not the case.
For them, it was to keep the ghosts at bay. To keep the glazed over, tired eyes at bay. To stop the ache from reaching their chests. It was a distraction. Just for a bit.
So when the laughter died down, they stared down at the table, waiting for the ghosts to come or someone to say something. And it was Dean who was to break this deafening silence, knocking his fingers against the glass bottle.
"Do you guys remember when all we had to worry about was an occasional haunting or rogue vamp?" He asked, a thought that had been on his mind for what felt like a lifetime.
Sam looked down at his beer and a faint smile flickered onto his face. "Yeah, I remember," his voice soft.
He remembered that time... long ago; like it was another lifetime. He remembered studying in the library in Stanford. He remembered only wondering about what Dean was doing, not praying he was still alive. He remembered a girl with golden hair and deep brown eyes. He remembered a girl, taking his hand and kissing his lips, the faint 'I love you' mouthed into his. He remembered Jess. Sam smiled at those memories.
But then... He remembered the fire.
He shut his eyes. He shut it out. No, he will not think of that memory. He tried to focus on the good times; he had to. Just not that memory, anything but that memory. He opened his eyes again, and his voice cracked a bit when saying, "What happened to that?"
Dean noticed but didn't say anything about it. "Well, to put it in words: I went to hell, Cas saved me —thanks again, by the way— and then... well, it all went downhill from there."
Sam raised his brow. "Wow... weird hill."
Cas' face squished up in confusion. Dean tried not to notice how cute he looked. "What hill? I don't remember a hill?"
The brothers both rolled their eyes, but chuckled at his complete bewilderment. How is it that an Angel could be left so clueless sometimes?
Cas looked between them. "What?"
Dean shook his head. "Nothing, Cas, just... don't ever change."
Cas' brow furrowed. "What? Why would I change?"
"Never mind," Dean said with shake of the head. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, and took a moment as though in thought. "Yeah... a lot has happened, and I don't think we have actually thought about how much has happened."
He looked at his brother and the angel, and thought about how much they had all been through. But yet, here they were. Yeah, maybe a bit battered and bruised, maybe wont ever get a peaceful nights sleep again, but they were here. They were alive. And that's all that mattered.
"So, I would like to take this moment to make a toast," he grinned, rising from his chair, his beer bottle lifted over his head, a smile on his face.
"Dean..." Sam started.
"Shut up, we're doing this," Dean shot back.
Sam sighed, but raised his beer nonetheless.
Cas didn't really know what to do; he didn't have a drink —he didn't need to drink— so he patted his thighs awkwardly.
Dean noticed. "Cas, you can..." he scouted the bunker library and his eyes landed on the lamp on the table. Close enough. "Cas, you can use the lamp, or something."
Cas gingerly grasped the lamp, inspected it before coping the others and raising it over his head. Dean noticed how the light made his hair shimmer gold, and blue eyes glow and glisten bright. Dean smiled. At this angle, Castiel, Angel of Thursday, had a proper halo.
"Well, to us... for getting this far. We have been through a lot, and never really get a break. But we have kept on going. So lets thank god, wherever the hell he might be, that we have got through this hell, and hey —Can't get any worse, can it?"
"Here, here," Sam giggled, standing to clank his bottle with his brother's. And Cas stood, a faint grin on his weathered face, and knocked his lamp against the two bottles, the light shining through the glass —colours getting splashed back in their faces.
They smiled. They didn't have to fake them this time.
Again, for a second they were happy. For a second, the ghosts were forgotten —still there, but forgotten.
If I could, I would keep them in that second forever, but... well, I promised not to lie. And I have to tell you that time stops for no one. Not even for the men, and Angel, who happened to save the world a couple of times.
So that second ended and the ghosts came that night, like they do every night. They came in the rounds of screams, of protests, the continual grit of teeth and clench of pillows, that were the signs that those ghost that lived inside them and seemed to only come out at night, in their endless, bottomless dreams of dark, bloody faces of people they once knew, of the people they couldn't protect. So many... so many memories, so many faces.
So many ghosts.
And Castiel had to listen, for Angels with Grace don't sleep. He had to sense the pain of his friends each night, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But even Angels have ghosts. And in the dead of night, he would lower his head, full of an infinite amount of wisdom and unearthly knowledge, and his ghosts will come to him —all his brothers and sisters that he could not save, that he had to kill. All the mistakes he made; how many lives he had taken and shattered.
Was he even a servant of God anymore?
Was he worthy of the title, Angel?
All his brothers and sisters had never strayed from the light as much as Castiel had. They craved the need to follow orders, which Cas never understood. Maybe they were just made that way. But... what about him?
He had questions, he had doubts. Things he couldn't find the answers to.
Sometimes he missed the time where he was blindly ignorant, obeying every command without question. At least then there was less pain.
But, well, here he was now, his True-Form cracked and scarred from being torn apart and put back together again. He often wondered about who he was. Why was he different? Why was he the only one of his kin to choose free will? Why was he the only one to ask 'why'?
Maybe he was just made this way —got dropped on the head when he was a fledgling. Maybe he was made with a crack in his chassis. Maybe he was made to be different.
But... why?
That was a brick wall, Cas could never get over.
Father used to say —not in person, of course— that there was a plan for everything, every single thing. So what was the plan for him? For the Winchesters? For the world?
Castiel hated not knowing. He knew none of his kind did either; that was one thing they had in common: they hated the unknown.
But little did anyone know that once, the plan had been known —the plan for Cas, for the Winchesters, for the world.
They just weren't allowed to know.
Not yet.