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Dean Winchester ([personal profile] ramble_on) wrote2000-12-10 09:44 pm

Separated Brothers

It's getting dark when John parks the Impala and gets them a room. He doesn't say anything as he steps out of the car, but he doesn't need to. Dean follows his lead unquestioningly.

He has been on almost every single hunt with his father since he was six years old and John decided that it wasn't worth leaving him behind. Dean was relieved when they finally made that transition. Left alone without anyone to talk to or anything to do, he would sometimes get sad. He'd miss mom, he'd miss Sammy, and he'd dream about both of them getting burned in the fire.

Instead of going to school, Dean's father teaches him to shoot guns, give no mercy to the supernatural, and to get revenge. He learns to read Latin before he can read English, and all lessons come down to ways to kill everything inhuman. Dean holds all these lessons tightly and exorcises his first demon at eight, with his father standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder. He salt-and-burns his way through a couple more years, and then Dean is icing werewolves and his father even trusts him enough to split up with him sometimes.

Dean isn't happy, but he isn't sad, either. He just is. An instrument, something made to fight and get results, and extension of his father. Without Dad, there'd be no Dean, because there's no one else to tether him to this world.

By fifteen, Dean has learned to like hunting. Every time he kills something, he says it's for Sammy and Mom, and he therefore learns a kind of enjoyment from it. A sense of being right. Of doing something important.

And maybe that's what happiness is.

His father doesn't praise him very much, but Dean gets the occasional hand on his shoulder or slight smile when he figures something out. Those moments are enough. They're all Dean needs, really.

He closes himself off to any other possibility. Refuses to feel lonely and just hardens. Becomes an even better soldier. Fights and hunts until he's tired and sore and can have the dark kind of sleep without the dreams.

That night, after they get their motel room, John leaves Dean alone. Those are always the worst nights. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, Dean feels left out. Not good enough. Like his father thinks he has to fight the war alone because Dean's too young. Dean has trouble on those nights, and flirts with self-destruction, going to bars even though he's too young, tangling with girls who know better. Anything to make him feel worth something.

John doesn't judge him. Can't, really. Dean's old before his time, and John has his own vices. Dean's had to help him to bed reeking of cheap whiskey on more than one occasion, and one time, he got a black eye for it and all sorts of accusations that he doesn't think about anymore. Dean knows he doesn't mean it. Not really.

This night, Dean doesn't feel like going anywhere, so he orders a pizza and plays the TV loudly so he can't hear himself think. He's just about to break into his father's whiskey, when John hurries into the motel room.

"I got one Dean. We gotta go."

Dean doesn't ask what or why. He packs up without any questions, gets in the Impala, and then they drive to an abandoned chemical plant. It's old and looks like it could collapse at any minute, but inside...

"Hellspawn."

Dean follows his father to where the kid is cuffed to an old pipe, the cuffs lined with devil's traps and other symbols.

"He's a kid."

It isn't meant to be an argument; Dean doesn't argue with John, and John knows it. So his father nods instead of taking offense.

"One of the kids being raised in Hell to be some kind of antichrist. Following that yellow-eyed bastard wherever he goes."

Why? Dean wonders, but his father is giving him a look because he's gaping, so Dean takes out the holy water instead.

"I'm gonna get the rest of the tools. We'll get him to talk."

Dean knows what that means. John Winchester has a reputation for getting any demon to talk. Even the ones that have been demons for a long, long time.

He nods.

"You watch him, Dean. Don't let him get away with anything."

So Dean crouches by the cage with holy water and a gun and looks at the boy, who's so young.
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (pic#6468512)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-11 04:59 am (UTC)(link)
The ten, eleven-year-old boy stretches out his scrawny legs -- thin not so much out of lack of nourishment, neglect, but out of youth. He doesn't seem that bad off, really; hair is unruly but not too much so, and his shirt is only mildly blood-spackled and torn. He glances at Dean and reveals one eye is swollen nearly shut, his nose banged up and so full of clogging blood that he needs to breathe from his mouth. He'd been taught not to be afraid, been taught to hate hunters, but -- but now that he's rattling in chains and doomed to be tortured, he thinks maybe he wasn't so brave after all. His heart is booming in his chest, and he tucks his locked-up hands behind his knees to hide how white his knuckles have grown.

Don't show them you're afraid, Cain. What kind of soldier of Azazel is afraid of hunters? None, that's who. He'll be brave, tilt his chin back proudly, and face the pain. Dad'll find him. He'll save him; Azazel loves all his boys and girls on the field. He protects them, gives them what they deserve. After all, they were gonna be killed anyways. Just for being them. It was true.

He watches Dean with intent, curious hazel eyes. They're not that demonic. They only go black sometimes, contrary to popular belief. He stares at the holy water, rubbing his slightly battered and bruised arm, and finally speaks up in a soft but undaunted tone, "That's not gonna burn me. I'm not a demon." That's why he's special, too. He's got the greatness of demon, and then some. And holy water doesn't faze him, or Christo. Or exorcisms. If anything, he has the power to drag demons down into the depths of Hell. If they've been particularly stupid.

There are a lot of stupid demons.

"... Devil's traps don't either. It's just sigils that stop me from using my powers."

He's not gonna sugar coat or lie. John Winchester knows his stuff. This one probably would figure it out, sooner or later.
Edited 2013-12-11 05:02 (UTC)
avengeful: like a big emotional brick (we can break into houses)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-11 06:45 am (UTC)(link)
Cain shrinks back, flinches and closes his eyes at the cold slap of water. But there's no sizzle, no howl of pain -- he just looks back up at Dean, hair wet, coagulated blood mixed enough with water that it drips pale pink droplets into his shirt. He shifts, and the chains rattle just faintly from around the pipe; truly, he has no strength in his arms like demons do, and even if he wanted to use his telekinesis, the sigils are perfect for keeping him trapped well and truly.

"... I told you. I'm human. Same garbage as you."

It's not sneered, just stated like a blatant fact. Still, it had taken a stab of courage to say as much, and he tries to hold his ground despite how he knows he looks. The fact that he's so thin and bony makes people underestimate him from the get-go, human and monster alike.

Cain glances up and down, assessing Dean's stoic act, his coolness. Then tries plays the same tune, tries to mirror the face. His voice remains unrelentingly small and patient and touched with a false sense of casualness. "Are you gonna torture me?"
Edited 2013-12-11 06:49 (UTC)
avengeful: (Default)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-11 07:07 am (UTC)(link)
This time, Cain has enough warning to harden his resolve, and when the knife cuts him he just stares blankly back at the hunter. He lets him shove the arm back, lets it bleed, because he's preparing for an inevitable truth: unless his dad comes for him soon, he's gonna be bleeding. He's ready. He'll make them all proud. Or at least, he repeats the mantra until he hears footsteps echoing back toward their location; his eyes widen faintly when his gaze flicks up, trying to track the sound.

They won't kill him as long as they don't have words. He just needs to be silent a while, and it'll buy time. They'll stop and let things fester, but once Azazel finds him, he'll be okay. Jake and Lilly will help him; his... siblings. Or as close to siblings as Cain will ever get. He doesn't want the children of the biological father who threw him away like trash. Not him, not when he is capable of so much, even as a waste of human space.

The footsteps are louder. He looks at the ground and doesn't look up, even as John is setting out a small tray with an assortment of things Cain refuses to look at. He won't let the distress show on his face. Maybe it's stupid, but he has to say something, and he figures he might as well give them reason to keep him breathing. After all, it could lead their biggest enemy to them, right?

"My dad'll save me. He'll find me and take me back."
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (Misery thy name is Winchester.)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-12 01:09 am (UTC)(link)
The kid turns his head away, trying to lessen the injury — he could try to shove the other guy, try to kick and scream, but it's not going to get him out of this room or out of trouble. He's not a hand-to-hand fighter, not like hunters are; besides, they'd shoot him dead before he ever got out of the door. His eyes glaze faintly with tears and he curses his human body, how it reacts immediately to the sharp ache in his face. It hurts. It's not like the sensation of withdrawal, different in its own right. It's immediate and sudden and nothing like an aching, shivering body or throbbing headache.

He doesn't make any sound, though. Just grunts when John whips the chain up over the pipelines and pulls, forcing Cain to his feet, and then pulls again so that he's hung by his wrists, shoes barely scuffing the floor. The pain in his arms starts up, slow and steady, but it's nothing bad. He can handle it.

"This is your only warning. Answer the questions." He doesn't say and we'll let you go, because they all know that's a load of bull. Cain doesn't look at either of them, focusing his dulled expression to the floor. Trying not to give them any room to break him apart, even an inch. Blood welling up on his face dribbles down, bright compared to the caked, grimy mess under his nostrils; he breathes in through his mouth again. Trying to sniff hurts.

"Light the furnace," John tells Dean simply, before he begins.

Cain doesn't start screaming until twenty-five minutes into the session. His shirt's long gone and bloody, and there's salt dribbling with blood that had been left in raw injuries — small, insignificant knife marks packed with the fine grains, burning his limbs and torso until he's breathing in deep and strangled. Sometimes JohnDean doesn't salt him. Sometimes JohnDean cauterize them, burn them until the smell rises up and coils around him. And for all his fighting his two torturers, there are big tears forcing out his eyes, dripping down his face uncontrollably.

But he doesn't speak up yet. Not who his father is, not where his father is, not what they're planning, no hide-outs or demons they're working with. He just shakes his head with his expression screwed up with agony, shakes it over and over and over. Because Azazel told him to not say. And Azazel said that Cain was his best and brightest. He had what it takes.

He finally answers the name question when John uses old but sharp pliers to remove the tip his left little finger down, just past his nail, on the first joint of bone. He screams Azazel, like it's a cry of pain in and of itself, and John's ready to ask more questions before his phone rings. It's just a moment til he says "Jim — what've you got?" and then he looks carefully at Dean and nods at the kid in the chains. The hunter looks tired. Then again, he looked exhausted the entire torture session, possibly disgusted. Cain's not sure if it was at him or at making a monster with a kid's face scream.

"We're done for now. He's under your eye, next few hours. We can't lose this." Which is a plethora of orders: don't let him die, don't let him trick you, don't let him do anything stupid like kill himself. For everything he is, Dean's father has faith that his son will follow through like the good hunter he is.

John wipes a hand over his face and walks away.

Leaves Cain sagged and breathing heavily, wet with sweat and tears.

His chin dips to his chest in relief at the man leaving them, even for just a little while. Despite how badly he wants to run his mouth and say something a demon would say, all that comes out is a hopeful, strained voice, surprisingly directed at Dean in short pants: "Did I do okay? I tried — not to scream."

He wants to be praised. Dean should know, he's a hunter.

Would Azazel be proud? Would he be mad that he gave them something, anything?

You're a tough one, kid. I always knew you'd be best in show.
avengeful: misty-creates @ lj (bicker bicker wah wah bloo bloo)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-12 02:16 am (UTC)(link)
Cain trembles with exertion, pain dulling slowly over time. Very slowly.

He blinks at Dean with that one bright eye, the other blackened and bruised, and he seems a little lost — mostly because it seemed obvious why he didn't say. He had to do what was expected of him, and that was to prove what the special children are capable of. It's always rule number one, making dad happy. And then he would let Cain drink from a cup of blood and he'd savor every single drop, run his fingers over the inside to lick away the rest from his hands.

"I'm being a good son," he says, simple and quiet. "Just like you."

He shifts and stifles a pained noise by biting his lip. His shoulders are slowly growing more stiff and tired, the blood rushing from them; it must be why his halved finger isn't weeping gore anymore. "What do you care, anyways. You like it. Cutting up people like me. Dad always said everybody'd want to cut me up, and he was always right..."

Even when he was little, just started having visions and moving things. His dad had to shield him from things. Monsters. Hunters. Society. They wouldn't get it, not him. He drops his head again, too tired to hold it up with throbbing, scrawny biceps. He wriggles uncomfortably as his knife marks burn. His ribs are expanded, pale skin taunt enough to display each; a few of the cuts are lined up neatly, a hunter's artistic expression.

"Humans are as bad as demons.

And they didn't even have to burn in hell to get that way."
avengeful: (Default)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-12 05:53 am (UTC)(link)
Cain flinches, but he tries to stand his ground anyway.

"I can handle whatever you do. I'm not scared." He just wishes there wasn't a slight tremor to his voice, or that his voice even sounded so high and young and stupid to begin with; he wishes he were bigger, stronger, more capable looking. People just look at him like he's a runt on top of a monster. Nothing worse, probably, right? But fine. He'll take it. Or — at least, he has no choice but to. "Dad'll save me. He'll get me back... He saved me from my old family... Said my dad hated me and my mom sold me."

The newfound bravery in the wake of this teenager dulls his pain a little more. "You just don't wanna admit it, that everyone's bad in the world, demons and people. Everyone's lying when they're nice, open the door for you, 'specially when they don't realize you're a freak — in the end, they just chain you up and cut off your fingers and listen to you scream."

Braver, indeed, but with the end of his rant he's all nervous, heavy breathing. What he really says, in the back of his mind, is that he's tried before. To be normal. He's ran away and tried, and Azazel found him every time. And once, he'd found him gagged and beaten, sitting in a room full of sigils. The shame — the shame to know he's fallen into the same predicament, to know that he'd given away his father's name, it weighs heavily on him suddenly. Hunters. Everything would be perfect if hunters never existed. He hates them so much. He hates people so much. He just wants to be one or the other; people or demons; why is he both?

"I hate you," he bites, struggling suddenly in his chains, a raw angry desperation washing over him. If dad didn't find him, he'd have all his fingers cut off, and they'd rip him apart, pour acid down his throat or pluck his eyeballs out. The panic rises and he jerks at his arms and kicks his feet, wild, unruly brown curls shaking and spitting sweat. It's enough that his wounds open up a little and he drips red dots. The pain makes him madder. Sadder. Tears spring up in his eyes. "I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!! I HATE YOU!!"

He was almost perfect, and then he was stupidly captured. He should have never gotten captured. He should have learned. He should have ripped John Winchester to pieces. He shouldn't have given in, just because he wasn't used to such pain. It was all sloppy and not a special child's work. He was supposed to be better than this. Because if he can't be a normal person... he has to be an exceptional beast.

His body hurts. Shock'll be setting in, maybe. He's already pale with illness, just from the act of it all. He drops his face toward the floor and tries not to hyperventilate, and he rasps, "Let me down, let me sit — let me sit — "
Edited 2013-12-12 05:56 (UTC)
avengeful: those signs are there for a reason (oh no someone hit a moose)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-12 07:57 am (UTC)(link)
Cain wakes up during the racket, but he feels heavy, hanging there. Blinks blearily and watches demons throw the teen hunter like he's nothing; he should be excited, happy, but he's mostly just exhausted and drowsy, barely able to hold onto consciousness. He does however smile just faintly. Serves you right. But that first shot goes off, a demon collapses. One demon — Meg, is that you — puts her hand out and the metal pipes snap open, dropping Cain painfully on his side. He bites back a gasp of agony and starts to crawl, starts to move away from all the sigils; now it's just these goddamn cuffs, and if he could just —

He starts scraping them against the sharp edge of debris jutting out next to him; debris? As his power begins to bleed back into him, he looks up and realizes very quickly through his good eye that the beams are compromised (goddammit Meg) and it's all about to go toppling any second. If he can just — rip Dean and John apart with his head... even if it's a challenge with how exhausted he is...

Dean's right there in his sights. He's too busy being horrified by his father protecting him — Cain freezes, his hand extended toward Dean, ready to pull his head from his neck with everything he's got. He can do it. He's got what it takes. He's a killer, too. He's killed hunters before. They all deserved it. They were mean, and even if they weren't, they would be. That's the game, Azazel had said. Two sides, one comes out on top, why not it be us?

The roof collapses, starting from the back, falling like a tidal wave.

That teenager won't be able to outrun it. Cain is safe with his powers.

He wins.

So he's not sure why he drags Dean through the air with his outstretched hand. Or why, when the wreckage finally crashes down, he extends the bubble of psychic energy enough that both of them aren't crushed beneath the weight hovering over the two. Cain curls up defensively, hands moving to his face, and waits to see if his abilities give out and they're crushed. When he slowly opens his eyes, all he sees is his bloody hands, the hunter kid no more than a foot away, and sharp, heavy metal pointing at them from every which way.

Just a few feet of room on each side of them.

Trapped.

He breathes out slowly, eye wide like a saucer. He thinks maybe he heard John's voice, muffled in the distance. Maybe. But the demons are gone... He feels it. He keeps his power leveled, and thinks maybe he can keep the bubble up long enough that someone can at least dig them out. He's not strong enough to push this all away...
Edited 2013-12-12 08:00 (UTC)
avengeful: tinycandies @ lj (watch out for them sneaky snakes)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-13 03:19 am (UTC)(link)
"Shut up, I didn't... I didn't save you..." he mumbles half-heartedly (because they both know he's full of shit there). He's too tired in his limbs to do much else but shake his head. It's too much energy used to move, anyway, considering he's trying to not get crushed. He blinks hard, shivering hard from shock and pale even in the darkness. "Your stupid dad probably got out of the way. He was too far to grab anyway; m'not strong enough right now."

Something above them creaks, clamors, and falls more -- and then the light in the area patching through the debris goes out entirely. Cain gasps, a startled, nervous sound. He doesn't like the dark; he's scared of it; the boy's not sure how to explain it, his conditioned fear of something demons are so drawn to, but -- but it's terrifying, that black vortex of nothing, eyes useless and the unknown lurking close.

He can't see Dean now, half-expects Dean to commit suicide by stabbing him and dropping the weight on top of them. But his breathing speeds up and there's an edge of gnawing panic to his words, even though he tries to mask tremble: the childish edge of a boy who hides behind his mom or dad and pulls on their shirts.

"I -- I -- Do you have a light?"

His stomach lurches, everything catching up to him.

He doesn't wanna die.

Not scared in the dark, bloody and by all means alone in the world.
avengeful: (Default)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-13 06:17 am (UTC)(link)
"Yeah," Cain says, voice almost not quite making it out. He ignores the obvious -- of course he's scared of things. He's not demonic, can't cancel out fear like they can. He's never dealt with Hellish things. Not really. Just mostly hellish people. He shakily takes the lighter, and the light of the flame bounces a little around their faces, his fingers unable to stay still. The warmth feels a little better on him, though. He's cold, shirtless, lacking some blood: fire is good.

Like it always is.

He cradles the half-gone finger against his sliced up torso, eye avoiding the world around them, focused on the hunter. The show-off kid who spat and fought torture and ranted is replaced with determination, someone who wants to prove himself. His face pinches once and smooths out, tears and blood drying on his face. "I can do it. Ava said I'm best at t-telekinetic barriers." Ava was good to him. She and Andy encouraged him most of all. But as minutes tick by, a steady stream of blood starts to drip out his nostril, already spackled with blood from earlier. He has never held this much for so long before. He's not sure how long he'll be able to, before he passes out. Especially when he has to work for two people, instead of one.

It occurs to him he could shrink the bubble, let Dean get crushed. He twitches to do it, even. But he just -- doesn't.

It seems wrong.

Azazel would be so disappointed.

Instead he tries to keep himself preoccupied with the idea of death. After all, they could be dying any minute or hour now. Especially if Dean's father is dead, or the demons don't return with his dad. Dean must be pretty disgusted at the idea, that he could be crushed and his final company is the special hell child. Cain's eyes go half-lidded. For a long time, he seems to be trapped in unreadable thoughts. And then -- blood pooling at his cheek from his nose, he blinks back aware.

"... Do you think heaven's real?" He stops, adds more quickly. "Hell's real. Do you think heaven and angels are as real as demons and the other stuff?"
Edited 2013-12-13 06:17 (UTC)
avengeful: <user name=bushyeyebrows> (THESE WOUNDS)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-13 02:10 pm (UTC)(link)
"Oh." It's spoken with a little finality, sounding a little like defeated. He glances back to the floor. "I guess that m-makes sense. Dad said God didn't want me anyway. " Cain had hoped, when he was a little smaller and stupider, that maybe he could appeal to God's better nature (if he had one), could maybe try to prove a zebra could change its stripes. That was back when he'd ran and the hunters had inevitably found him; he remembers vividly: muted crying he tried to suppress, while Azazel put a hand on his chin and pulled his gaze to meet his. I told you, son, he said, and it was wry and edged with disappointment. And sadness, Cain thought. Hoped.

"Nobody's ever wanted me but Azazel... Nobody'd have wanted me..."

It's a mumble, tired and drawn out. He's getting so tired. There's a pause -- Dean leaning in, putting something in his face, and he flinches but cannot shrink back. Eventually there's a pain in his battered nose, but then he realizes what Dean's trying to accomplish and relaxes, sags back against the earth heavily. The metal above creaks loudly.

"... If it's real... your mom and brother are up there." He peels his eye open and looks genuinely at Dean. Cain wants to not believe in good humans, really. But when he remembers "only the good die young", a quip by Azazel that eventually caught his mind and never went away. Burrowed deep. Maybe that's why people are horrible -- they stayed alive too long. Maybe they should all die and spare themselves the conversion to a shitty human being.

Maybe...

Or maybe he'd like to think Dean's genuinely being nice to him. Ha. Fat chance. Sluggishly, he thinks maybe this one's young enough that, when he dies, he might get to go to heaven. Maybe. Torturers -- do they get allowed into the human holy land?

"If I can't get saved, maybe I can finally be just a demon... It's too hard, being a human. S'too hard... Nobody wants you... L-lie and say they're gonna help you... Then they tie you up and hit you and..." He's rambling now, but since he's pretty sure they're all gonna die, the bravado is all but abandoned, replaced with Confessional, a need to get his pain and anger off his chest. He had done the Forgive Me Father once before. When he'd ran off. He thought it was an important step to trying to fit in.

He'd told the Priest what he does, how he's killed hunters trying to kill his non-family, and the man had drove him out of the church yelling that he needs to stop watching violent movies, that he's sinning. Cain didn't understand. Even now, Azazel and the others laughs at him when he brings it up, like it's a joke, but it was one of the most lonely, lost moments of his life.

He closes his eye miserably at the memory of it.
Edited 2013-12-13 14:11 (UTC)
avengeful: (Default)

oops i have a few kid icons now shhh

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-14 12:30 am (UTC)(link)
"Shut up," he scowls, but it's all kind of pathetic with that bandana in his face. Dean's not the first person to say things like that, to be sure — doesn't make it any easier to listen to. Possibly because Cain thinks maybe everyone might be even marginally right about it. He lowers his voice, not looking at Dean anymore. "I tried being human... I tried not using my powers... Hunters found me anyways. It doesn't even matter."

What's the point of trying if you just get hurt in the end?

John's voice echoes strong, though it's muffled by the layers of sheet metal. Cain can see, at least, that they were lucky enough things crumbled too easily. But who knew how long it'd take for them to get out, and his nose was still steadily bleeding, a warning beacon that he was slowly draining himself. Half an hour goes by, and Cain's shaking — convulsing, nearly — from exertion, his eyes pinched shut tight. He needs to keep going. He needs to — just hang on. The rubble shivers and the barrier shrinks just a little, the force of it pushing down a little on Dean's head.

"G-get closer. Get closer... I can't..."

It needed to be smaller. Or they'll both die anyway.

Tears sting his eyes. There are multiple voices — Cain can't recognize any of them, but he's betting John has company. Cain reaches out with his other hand, wrapping his fingers in the fabric of Dean's jacket. He's not sure why he's even doing this; he could just crush him. So easily. But he'll be surely killed anyway, if John gets to them and he let his boy get smashed. That's the right logic to have, right? Right?

His face is shiny with sweat, cheeks red.

A beam of light cuts through, an hour and a half later, and Cain's nearly lost consciousness. The last thing he sees is the Colt being pointed at his face, John's voice a garbled wave lost in the crowd of white noise. Though, it feels like something attaches around his wrists again, and he can't help but think with a sullen, unhinged sigh They'll cut off all my fingers next.



Up above, John reaches for Dean to pull him free.

Another hunter grabs Cain by and arm and yanks, like a stuffed bear from a box. The kid's weightless enough that his lithe body is hoisted up by the limb like nothing, sigil-covered, new shackles clasped tight on each wrist. While Carlos (older, beard, missing an eye) drags the special hell kid to the Impala's trunk, John thoroughly inspects Dean, thumb resting on his son's jawline. He yells for the other hunter to toss Cain in the back seat (seriously, they don't need him dying in their fucking trunk, they're too close to getting what they need).

"You have a concussion. Stay awake." There's a flare of concern, strong in his eyes. John doesn't often fret, and now that he can see his son isn't mangled or half-dead, his shoulders rest a little easier. "We'll find a new place to talk with the hellspawn kid; it's not safe to stay here anymore, understand? We'll hit a motel and move on to Carlos' old farmhouse a state over. I need you to be alert, make sure the kid doesn't wake up or do anything stupid."

He glances to the Impala, to the knobby knees getting shoved through the door.

They have a name.

John wants more than that.

But they need to go. He applies pressure to Dean's headwound with a clean towel and starts to lead him to the car.
Edited 2013-12-14 07:31 (UTC)
avengeful: (Default)

gosh dean you aged poorly in just 15 years

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-16 08:10 am (UTC)(link)
Silence. Shoes crunching on glass. An engine sputtering.

"... For fuck's sake — Did we kill Cain? Azazel'll be pissed — you know the Winchester's kid is his favorite special child."

"Hey! I didn't know they'd take him, after the warehouse! Maybe they knew somehow..."

"Don't be an idiot, they were torturing him. John Winchester wouldn't bleed one of his own."

"If he knew he was as close to a monster as a human can get? Maybe."

"Shut up and help me grab him. We'll see if he makes it back."

****


Everything is dark for a long time. Cain doesn't like the darkness, doesn't like being immersed in it; something about it feels wrong, makes his skin crawl. And then with that thought came hands grabbing at his splayed arms. He smells sulfur and burnt rubber, blood and leather. Gun oil. Hot metal. His eye snaps open and his hand shoots out, chains violently rattling, punching whatever's grabbing at him. One of the two demons hisses faintly, but doesn't strike back. They know better.

"Chill the fuck out, kid! We're back to get you!"

The chains fall away, and once again, so very easily, he's free to use his powers. Not that it matters. He's got barely any juice left, especially in his confusion. But here's what he does manage to piece together: these two idiots drove a truck into the car he was in. Were they trying to kill him? There's the Impala, and there's a truck, and — what if he'd died? What if he's dying right now? His chin bobs against his chest as they draw him from the broken window, shadowed, limp bodies in his vision for a moment (dead? are they all dead?).

"Our bad, Cain. But hey, we didn't kill you, at least."

When he's in one of the demon's arms, he reaches up, face blank.

And wrenches the demon out of the body he's in, leaving a screaming cloud of smoke dispersing into the sky. The body crumples and he falls without support to the cold, hard asphalt, too tired and limp to manage much else. He feels like a gas meter on empty, coated in grime and blood and sweat. Everything's swirling around, a confusing world where he's hurt and in shock and nothing feels right.

The hunters deserve to die, he thinks from the ground, staring at the car. The tangled wreck. He swallows hard and thinks about how John stood inches from him, face to face, and ran a blade along his ribs. He thinks about that and tries to find satisfaction in the destruction, like demons would.

But he can't.

"What the fuck, Cain?! What are you doing?!"

The demon doesn't approach his limp, half-conscious form though.

He fears the power, unaware that the scrawny body is pretty much tapped out.
Edited 2013-12-16 08:36 (UTC)
avengeful: (Default)

[personal profile] avengeful 2013-12-16 03:17 pm (UTC)(link)
Get away from me, Cain thinks. Get away get away get away. But the woman puts a hand on him, turns him over, and he cries out at the pain in his ribs as she does it — he'd at the very least shove her back psychically, keep her away because she's a human and she's just pretending and it'll all be over soon. Distantly, he thinks the only hope he's got of anything is the hunter's kid, and that's not going to be worth anything at all.

"Don't — don't you touch me," he hisses, and her hand shrinks back only a little. Probably mistaking that command for just a fear of more pain. In a way, that's completely correct. He rolls himself to his stomach and tries to move, but his arms and legs feel like lead. The sirens are closing in, and — and this has never happened before. His heart thunders violently in his chest and he's afraid, yeah, afraid. He'll admit it to himself, he's scared and confused and it all hurts —

"Dean — ?" He doesn't mean to even question, just yell, try to see if by some miracle something would come of it. But it mostly just comes out a question, a nervous sound that feels surprisingly natural in his throat. The woman is still trying to move to assist, hands hovering in fear. She doesn't know what to do. "Don' take me. Get — get away — "

"God, your face, it's bleeding... Please, hon, let me see... Stop trying to move, you'll just make it worse — You! You shouldn't be moving either!" But Cain thinks the lady's an idiot, because it means jack shit to tell a hunter what to do. It really does.
Edited 2013-12-16 15:17 (UTC)

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