~ River Song; the battle of demons run
Sam Winchester | Neutral | Vampire
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~Viking Prince
~Little Princess
~This is a closed RP Blog for Wayward Orphans
It’s late. The air around him is thick and heavy, clouded with the fog of night and tinged blue-gray. Smoke curls around him like the end of a whip, seeping seamlessly into the air from the lit end of his cigarette. It was easy to break into abandoned gas stations and steal their loot, and it was easier than hell to ration them when you weren’t a human and couldn’t get addicted. Benny just liked the taste, liked the feel of the smoke on his tongue and liked the calm that it brought him—just him and the butt of a cigarette, him and the smoke, the fire, and him and the air. The thickness of that air sticks to him like regret and his skin feels leathery, but the cigarette does its job and provides distraction. Benny’s legs ache as if he’s been walking for miles, to hell and back as the saying goes. His knuckles and bruised and bloodied and there was fighting, but his hands don’t remember.
He smells whomever it is before he hears them and he’s not bothered. They’re both welcome in this camp, probably them more than Benny but Dean trusts him and that’s the only trust he needs.
Benny’s better at hiding his sins in his bones than he is in his soul, if he has one. Cas would know, but Castiel isn’t here and Benny doesn’t look up when the mystery person finally approaches, hardly acknowledges them as Benny looks out on the graying horizon and takes a deep drag from the fag hanging off of his fingers.
It takes a lot of work to be real, for things to feel real. Especially when most of your life, the world has been inhabited by things that shouldn’t be real. Benny doesn’t feel real anymore, but he is real. He can feel the wind on his cheeks, the fire burning on the end of the cigarette, the smoke in his lungs. He can feel, so that means that he’s real. The only difference between real and fake is the blood on your hands and Benny’s dealt plenty of that hand in his life.
“You know, I really should pick up painting again,” he says, his tone lighter than the cigarette. ”A white canvas looks beautiful painted in blood. Don’t worry, won’t use yours. You oughta be careful… just cuz we in this camp don’t mean you’re safe. There’s plenty of monsters in here, just like there are out there.”
“I wouldn’t give you the chance.” Sam’s voice rang out, droll but amused. Hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans as he took a few steps out of the darkness, looking sidelong at the other vampire before turning his gaze up to the sky. A small moment of peace to just see the stars - cloudless nights meant so many of them. No cities anymore. No towns. No power-stations pushing out electricity to permanently illuminate the places where humanity nestled. No light pollution bleeding into the sky to dull the dusting of light across the blackness. A few metaphors there, that Sam wasn’t quite in the mood to wax lyrical about.
At the comment about ‘monsters’ Sam just bristled. Not entirely sure if Benny was referring to himself, or to Sam or just in general. And he was
t i r e d
of hearing that word.
~M o N S t e R
Weary of trying to explain about the what and the who and that they didn’t always mesh together in the ways most people expected or assumed. Besides, he had no need to explain himself here. He could be friend or foe or just another presence. He could be the proverbial ‘dark side of the moon’ and he doubted it would make any difference to the other.
Maybe to Benny, Sam represented the end of something. The end of that sole dependency. He didn’t doubt that his brother would ever sever those ties - Sam didn’t know exactly what had happened during those intervening years, figured it wasn’t his place to ask. But here, in the camp, there wasn’t a single reliance. There wasn’t the same camaraderie as was forged when you put your life in someone elses hands on a daily basis.
He wondered if Benny understood, that Sam knew that feeling well. That - for so long - it had been just them. Sam and Dean Winchester v’s’ the world… Until Sam broke anyway. And that he was grateful - in a way - that when Sam couldn’t be there for him, Dean had had someone that he could rely on. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. But there was no other way. Not then.
Sam knew he wouldn’t always be the one - to save Dean. Cas had lifted him out of Hell where Sam had failed. Several others over the years. And that was okay. If didn’t matter so much who saved him - as long as he was saved.
“Safety is relative. And saying things like that isn’t going to make anyone feel any more secure - or give them a better impression of things with fangs. If you want to get poetic about the dangers of vampires or ‘painting in blood’, then I’d appreciate if you would do it away from the place my family live. People are twitchy enough already around us. I don’t need to give anyone more excuses.”
Raguel’s brow furrowed as he came to with the scratchy feeling of leaves against his cheek and the smell of dirt and earth in his nose. He was lying down, face pressed into the ground. How had that happened? A moment ago he had been home, in Heaven, and now he was horizontal on the surface of what he unmistakably recognized as Earth. He was in a vessel too, male he guessed as he looked down at the calloused hands supporting him when he pushed himself up. It was heavy, having a body again. It had been hundreds of years since he’d last been here in a vessel and Raguel had almost forgotten how heavy flesh and bone were.
The first thing he noticed when he got to his feet were the bodies. Four bodies, burned and two of them still smoking, all of them dead. Had he done that? That was very unfortunate. If he’d been aware he was going to be taking a vessel he would have made sure the collateral damage had been kept to a minimum. Four people were not minimum and Raguel did a quick calculation of the bloodlines he’d just ended and how many lives he’d just prevented from ever being born. The result did not satisfy him. He’d been keeping an eye on Earth while up in Heaven and with the way things were now every life was valuable and crucial to increasing the chances of survival for his Father’s humans.
With a displeased expression on his face, he looked down at the vessel that had been the cause for the unecessary casualties. It was filthy, didn’t smell very good and its clothes were a little torn in places and stained with dirt and blood. It was very peculiar, Raguel had been completely certain that his current vessel would be female, 13 years old and living with her brother in a ruin in New Mexico. This body was not that of a little girl, which led him to the conclusion that this was not his proper vessel. How had he ended up in this body?
Raguel was back to frowning again, it seemed to be familiar facial expression for this vessel. Turning his searching gaze inwards, Raguel wanted to find out more about this man but he only got a single word before iron walls slammed down around the soul and mind of the man whose body Raguel was currently sharing. Just a single word before it turned dead silent and pitch black inside his mind.
Sam.
A name. Was it the man’s name?
“Sam.” Raguel tried saying it out loud. His voice was low, a little hoarse and it felt like there was a bit of reluctance as he spoke, like each word took a little more effort to get out than what Raguel had imagined. He moved. At least there was no reluctance when it came to moving. Beyond the initial weight of being corporeal again, there was no trouble in moving this body. The movements were smooth and precise, controlled. Raguel liked this. The predictability of the movements assured him even if the rest of the situation still wasn’t making much sense to him.
He looked around again, this time spotting big plumes of smoke rising towards the sky, illuminated by the red glow of the fires below. There were screams, muffled by the distance but he could still hear them. Raguel suddenly felt a need to be there, to be there to help them. Help who? Confused, he tried to listen if maybe the thought had come from the mind of the vessel but there was still nothing but stony silence coming from within. And still he felt a strong, almost painfull, urge to go to where the fires were.
Looking around where he was standing one more time he decided to go. Maybe that place would hold some answers as to why he was here? Who he was supposed to help? And who Sam was?
Eric was safe. Hanna was with Eric so she was as safe as she possibly could be right now. And Sam needed to find the rest of his family… Dean.
He needed to find his brother.
Sam could only think that Dean was out by the front gate, where the chaos began, where there was the biggest failing in their defenses. It was just c h a o s. People running and screaming. Blood and flames. Everywhere he turned. There was too much scent to get any kind of bead on his brother - no trail to follow - usually Dean’s smell would be hitting Sam’s nose like a beacon, but there was too much happening for him to be able to pinpoint it over the smell of burning and arterial spray.
“Dean!?”
“DEAN!?”
Hands were grabbing and those horrid vapid maws snapped, infected trying to chew on flesh, a quick turn and Sam lashed out with his machete, the force of the blow decapitating one, and jamming half way into the skull of a second, hitting solid bone instead of more fragile vertebrae. So he planted his foot on it’s chest and heaved, a sickening crunch as the blade was yanked free, tainted blood soaking Sam all down one side - stinking and repulsive to his senses.
Tossing the body to one side without another thought, the machete swung again, cleaving a path through the swarms of Croats - thick crowds of quick death - but Sam, at least, was quicker. It wasn’t a case of clearing the camp - not now - not yet - it was about finding people and getting them out! And Sam turned at a sharp yell, Risa on her back struggling beneath the weight of another infected. Not wanting to risk the swing of his blade that close, he didn’t think he’d hit her, but she’d be soaked in blood and it was too much risk, Sam grabbed the thing by the back of it’s shirt, hauling it of and throwing it with as much force as he could against the side of one of the cabins that hadn’t been completely consumed by the fire. There was a ‘crunch’ as bone snapped beneath the force, but Sam had his machete through the Croat’s neck before it hit the ground.
Risa was already scrambling to her feet behind him, gun raised and shots firing out. “Dean?” Sam yelled over the noise, saw her glance at him, tight lipped as she slipped another clip into her gun, a small shake of her head. So he gave a sharp, jerky nod of his own, “Get out of here! Head to the back - there’s less of them that way - get as many out as you can!”
So as Risa took off, Sam continued to make his way to the main gate, slipping around the back of the weapons storage - at least it wasn’t on fire, metal locked room… twisting his head to peer around to the broken gates and fence, the scattering of bodies on the ground that lay in the wake of the wave of Croats, pressing deeper into the compound. There was still no sight of his brother though. Nothing in this part of camp seemed to be left alive…
About to turn and head back into the fray, something very big and very heavy slammed into his back, and the younger Winchester was suddenly eating dirt, borne to the ground, twisting to try to get a glimpse of whatever had attacked him. Absolutely… Nothing. Nothing that stunk of sulfur and dead animals, carcasses splayed out in the sun to rot. Nothing that snarled viciously in his ear, and Sam let out a yell as claws raked along his side, splitting skin in a decent attempt at disemboweling him.
One hand moved to punch the invisible creature - hellhound - as the other stretched out, trying to grab onto the machete he’d dropped. His fangs snapped out and he returned the snarl with one of his own. “If you…. Go near… My brother….“ Every few words was punctuated by another punch, Sam trying to break the thing he couldn’t even friggin’ see. A moment later, Sam’s arm was torn open, bone snapping between heavy jaws just as he managed to get his fingers on the hilt of the machete and the swing was knocked off course as he let out another pained yell, embedding the edge of the blade in…. Something… Hoping that it might just cause enough damage….
Adam stared at the figure in front of him, not quite believing that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, that this wasn’t just another one of those weird flashes of memory that was there and gone before he could get any kind of real grasp on it, that was he was seeing was actually his brother… well, half brother, but he figured that part really didn’t matter so much. Fact was he and Dean had still been just as willing to put their necks on the line in an attempt to clear up the mistake Adam had made when he’d said yes to Michael… but could it really be Sam? Last time Adam remember seeing him, he’d been falling into hell with him, dragging Michael and Lucifer in tow so… how was he here now, and alive? Then again, Adam wasn’t exactly sure how he’d made it out of the cage himself, and if Michael and Lucifer were walking the earth, why not his brother… and he wanted it to be Sam, he really did. After travelling for so long by himself, it would be reassuring to have actually discovered a familiar face… but the rational part of Adam’s brain (otherwise known as a healthy, or perhaps not so healthy, sense of paranoia he carried these days; mostly a result of being a glorified angel condom the last time he’d walked the Earth) kicked in and pointed out that just because this thing looked like Sam, didn’t mean it was…There were shape shifters out there who could mimic the human form pretty damn convincingly and his brother could’ve easily run into one of them.
His hand moved in a subconscious motion to rest on his knife instead of his gun, the knowledge that, were this a shape shifter, the silver should expose as much comforting him somewhat as he eyed the possible-Sam-but-perhaps-not-because-this-is-the-end-of-the-world-and-pretty-much-everything-wants-to-kill-you.
…Yeah, as he’d said, his paranoia wasn’t necessarily healthy, but it’d kept him alive this far so he figured he wouldn’t prod at the unresolved issues that caused it too much… Cute little kids had turned out to be werewolves, innocent victims were savage killers, even humans couldn’t be trusted… in fact, in Adam’s experience, they were sometimes the biggest monsters of all… certainly their auras had given a less that flattering depiction of their true intentions.
And while he still didn’t entirely trust the abilities he seemed to have gained from being Michael’s vessel, nor did he feel particularly comfortable using them since they kind of made him feel a little… well, inhuman really, they had proven to be pretty accurate in deciphering intent as far as the auras that surrounded those he encountered went… at the very least it couldn’t hurt to take a peak at the might-be-Sam’s aura could it?
Adam closed his eyes, refocusing his senses in the way he’d learnt to do over the time since he’d been freed from his services to Michael, before reopening them, eyes a little distant as he searched for the not-quite-there colours surrounding the possible-Winchester. He caught a glimpse of blue, a softer shade that he’d learnt usually meant honesty with slightest hints of deep red that he’d found around the braver people he’d observed, something to do with determination or courage he’d assumed, either way the colours did reassure him, if only a little, that this figure might just be who he appeared to be… after all he lacked the traces of dark, murky pinks or forest green that he’d learnt meant it was basically a good idea to get the hell outta dodge or otherwise he prepared to fight but… this man, this possible-Sam, seemed entirely genuine…
Though there was another shade that Adam had never seen before and couldn’t quite place which did make him feel perhaps a little uneasy…
But he forced his insecurities down, pushing his abilities to the back of his mind and his findings with them as he finally managed to let go of the knife he’d been clutching in a death grip at his belt.
“Sam?” He found himself smiling a little, despite himself as he took a few hesitant steps closer. “It’s… it’s really good to see you man.”
That was one of the useful things about being ‘dead’. And in all honesty it didn’t really seem fair that there had to be a lack of a heartbeat before it happened. But the whole world swarmed into stark, vivid, pinpoint clarity whenever Sam opened his eyes. Stunning color, infinite, intricate detail. Sounds swept into his ears from distances that would have been impossible otherwise. The rapid thud of a heartbeat, and then the scents… Thick with the things that made someone unique, a delicate mix of hormones, endorphins and traces of salt. Which is why, a lot of the time, all of those senses put together a picture for him. A more complete picture of a person than Sam had ever been used to before. It put aside the need for tests and questions - at lease a lot of the time, though in this case, Sam’s mind was still falling over about a thousand questions - the how and when and… Was he okay? (Stupid question, obviously not, he’d been in the Cage - but was he okay in the sense that his mind wasn’t falling to pieces… It had almost killed Sam… He didn’t think he could bear to watch it happen to Adam too).
When Adam’s hand moved to the knife, Sam’s did too, only they were raised, empty, in some kind of gesture of placation, “It’s okay, kid. I’m not here to hurt you. I swear to God, I’ll prove it’s me if that’s what you need—” Harsh irony then, that most of the things that had survived this far were something a little ‘other’ than human, any thing with a slight advantage in strength of power or the capacity for deception - Sam had managed to remain so until just about two years ago now - but things change… And in the end it was the only thing that had saved him, had stopped the madness consuming him completely.
His words fell a little short when he watched the younger brother almost ‘zone out’ for a moment. Like he wasn’t looking at Sam anymore… Looking… Past him, somehow? And it was a little disconcerting to say the least…
Then it seemed like there was some kind of acceptance. Sam had no idea where it came from, but as Adam’s hand loosened on the knife and smiled, there was an immense sense of relief as some of the tension eased away. “Y-yeah, kid… It’s good to see you too. Man, I can’t tell you how much.”
And those questions still hovered there around the periphery, but they were perhaps, for another time. For now, it would be better to keep things simple. And it was hardy the time or the place - in the middle of a broken town, croats not so far away (never that far away these days, regardless of where you were).
“Look, there’s a camp, a few hours walk from here. I can take you there and we can—” Talk. Fill in all of those horrible blanks - the spaces between. Maybe answer a few questions while they’re at it. “It’s safe… Well… It’s safer than out here and… Dean’s there too.” They’d never really known him. Adam had gone before they’d even known he existed. Then the briefest moments when the angels were clamouring for their meatsuits and… Glimpses… Of a shattered soul.
Maybe this was finally a chance? At just being… Family.
Adam’s eyes shot open as he pushed himself up from the earth beneath him, the faintest sound of rustling in the distance putting him on edge… after all, if there was anything he’d learnt since he’d first encountered all the things that go bump in the night, it was that noises like that, however small, rarely meant anything good… especially when he was exposed like this, out in the open. He’d considered setting up camp in one of the nearby buildings but… something about the idea of being enclosed like that made him feel… uneasy to say the least. The last time he’d tried it he’d gotten a restless night, a pounding headache and the sense that he was forgetting something, something important, for his troubles… needless to say he hadn’t exactly been eager to repeat the experience.
He bundled up the blanket he’d been using to ward off the cold winds, shoving back in his supply bag as he took a hesitant step towards the noise to investigate… A small part of him, the part that’d lived a relatively normal life until a few years ago, helpfully reminded him that the people who died in horror movies were always the ones that checked out noises like this… but he pushed that part of him down into one of the corners of his mind and ignored it. He supposed becoming the vessel for a smite-happy archangel had kind of screwed with his survival instincts just a little… but then again, back then he’d have been pretty useless in a fight, even against a regular human (he’d had the cuts and bruises as a kid to prove as much) but now… well, for better or for worse, he had these… abilities. And though he tried not to think about them too much, they’d saved his life enough times by now that he’d, at the very least, come to appreciate their value.
All the same, he doubted he’d ever get used to the glowing… auras he guessed they were that surrounded people now, nor the sight of a demon’s true face… needless to say variations of that face featured frequently in the few nightmares he actually could remember these days… He took another hesitant step, hand moving to his side to rest on the gun holstered at his waist as he did, eyes flitting across his surroundings in search of any signs of life… well that or impending doom, his grip tightening on the weapon at his side as he heard another rustle, a little closer this time. “Hello?” He figured talking wouldn’t exactly do any harm at this point. Whoever this human/demon/angel/vampire… whoever this being was, they clearly already knew he was here so, maybe at least by confronting them he’d be able to draw them out into the open.
Usually any kind of disturbance would have Sam alert, wide eyed, grabbing for a weapon - regardless of how exhausted he might have been at the time. It was instinct - learned over years and years of living as he had - the need to be ready at a moment’s notice. Knowing that for all they were named ‘hunters’, that more often than not, it was easy enough to turn the tables and become the ‘hunted’. That anything and everything that slipped around in the dark, crawling between shadows, had every reason to want them dead. And wouldn’t that be a fabulous slice of bragging rights in Heaven, Hell, or any other realm that might still be lurking out there - to kill a Winchester - would be a boon to anything that succeeded. Trouble was - Winchesters - had rather the habit of coming back from the dead. Being dragged back, or kicked out of wherever they ended up in the afterlife.
So time and time again, their souls were bounced or shoved or whatever, back into their bodies.
Moral of the story - you want to kill a Winchester? Then you need to make sure there is absolutely no coming back or it’s going to be a very, very short lived victory…
However… There was more to being a Winchester than just the name. There was blood. Those with cursed genetics who’d been hidden in the past, only discovering the existence of another when it was already too late.
And as he turned towards the sound the scent of ‘human’ thick and heavy in the air - something in the periphery of Sam’s mind sorted through stunned recognition, tried really hard to process this whole new batch of information.
So Sam stood there, soaked up the moment. Was still having trouble believing that it was real. Seemed a little surreal in the soft glow of what little moonlight peeked through the clouds - but more than enough for Sam’s every to pick up on the detail. It was almost like some fever dream or phantom images conjured up from restless sleep. Something that could vanish again at any moment. He wondered how the hell this had happened - by chance or luck - didn’t really matter. Sam’s eyes widened as he took in the rest of the features he was presented with. There was no mistaking them.
But after all this time… Just a moment of happiness, genuine fucking happiness… Sam needed this.
And maybe Adam did too.
“Adam!?”
The story of the Phoenix is as such—the majesty of the bird dies, burns to ashes, and from those ashes its new self rises, new and fresh, revived with new life and leisure.To say that Eric would be that phoenix would be insulting to the phoenix, but the house around him is burning, and it feels like Sam is literally tearing at his insides with grief, fear, pain, anger, anguish, sadness, things Eric had not felt in at least a week. There had been much tension between the two over this course, but this wasn’t something you just flipped back on like a light switch.
You’re shown the things you used to care about painted in pictures of distress, harsh hard pencil lines instead of soft blurred edges, their faces in states of agony, their bodies ripped to pieces by the things you were always running from, in hope that somehow, somewhere inside of you it will trigger what you used to love about them, it’ll set off all the bad emotions you ever had to get the good ones turned back on.
Hanna is screaming, literally screaming and Eric has never heard another human being make that sound in his life, and it feels like something is ripping his heart out of his chest. The fire is burning her and Eric can only shield her with his whole body until they finally burn to death… until Eric remembers that the fire isn’t hurting him. He’s fine. His skin is crisp and white, pale and ashen as it always is, smooth silk pulled taut over hard granite, the only thing getting ruined in the process are his clothes. Hanna is safe in the confines of his body and something, a light switch, a beacon of light illuminates him, lights him up from the inside out and he finally realizes that he can save them, her.
He’s beyond saving now. He always has been.
Hanna stops crying and Eric has to make sure it’s not because she’s dead, and she isn’t, her little face is streaked with tears but she’s safe, seems content in daddy’s arms, even if there’s anarchy burning around them. His heart lurches up into his throat and he chokes back a sob as he presses a kiss to her head.
“Pappa will save you, darling. I love you.”
She’s in awe of the way his body is lit up, not with fire but with something else, like he’s the beacon, and Hanna raises her tiny little arms and parts the fire like the fucking red sea, and Eric has no idea what’s happening or how, but he wraps his leather jacket around her and holds her as close to him as he can. He walks through the fire, the proverbial phoenix, the prodigal son, rising from his own ashes. There are things clawing at him, and Eric can only snarl at them. He’s bloody, his face and his hands, his eyes and his neck. There’s blood and ash, and the ash paints the sky with bodies and strained cries. He doesn’t want to know how many people are dead, but he isn’t, and neither is Hanna and neither is Sam.
This is the second time in Eric’s life that something he loves has been consumed by fire. The first was his fault, the second… the fault of some phony God, a child throwing a tantrum. Eric vows that the person that caused his daughter to be injured by this inferno will die at his hands.
A demon charges him, he slices her throat open with vicious claws, watches her eyes go black and fall to the ground. A small consolation prize for the rain of fire that Eric will let loose on this world to keep his family safe.
He can feel Sam’s pain like something physical inside of him, and he latches onto it, floods it with his own sense of grief, of sorrow, of love and devotion that can only be felt this ferociously between Eric and Sam. Someone has a silver chain wrapped around Sam’s neck, and Eric doesn’t hesitate before reaching up and snapping the man’s neck. The eyes flash black before the body crumples to the floor, and Eric tears the silver from Sam’s neck, tears into his wrist and forces it into Sam’s mouth, holding him and their daughter between them, whispering hushed sorrows and sorrys and “I love you, I do, I’m so sorry, Sam, I love you, please forgive me, please, I saved her…”
They tell you that when you turn your emotions back on, that you should focus all your pain and anger, all the negatives and all that guilt that ricochet through your soul into one outlet, one person, one thought, one feeling…
I’m going to kill the devil.
Eric can see it, his fire burning the vessel, and he’ll burn and burn and burn every single vessel that this fucking angel lays claim to, because he’s not an angel, he’s a corruption, an abomination because, while Eric and Sam might be monsters, they might eat people and they might have supernatural powers, they love, they feel, they help and care and emote and have love…
The devil is incapable of love. He has to be, to set fire to something like this…
Eric will ask the devil if he’s ever loved anything in his whole life, if he’s ever felt betrayal and anguish and sorrow like Sam and Eric and all of these people are feeling right now, and when the devil says yes, Eric will strangle him with hands on fire and remind him that those emotions…. are human emotions. And then Eric will kill him.
Eric focuses on his hate, and he also focuses on his love, for Sam. He has tunnel vision for that one emotion, flooding through both of their bodies like an open channel, and Eric bathes in it, washes himself clean in the river of his lover.
There’s nothing but smoke and ash and the bright flicker of flames searing into Sam’s vision and he wonders for a moment if he’s somehow lost his mind again. If this is another vision of Hell somehow seeping back to the fore and clouding everything with fire and brimstone. He hopes it is. Because if Sam has lost his sanity, then it means people are not losing their lives. If means that the only thing on fire is his mind, his thoughts, his emotions. His grief is burning a hole through his chest now, barely able to feel anything from Eric, not knowing where he is. Not knowing if their daughter is safe. So please, let this be his mind and not his family.
He can feel the silver against his skin, can smell the flesh sizzling beneath it. But it barely even registers among the rest of the things that are ablaze. There’s no strength in his frame though, and try as he might to run towards the fire, his feet are just scraping the dirt, hands holding him back, sapping the last hopes and dreams of a dead man - inside as much as outside now.
“…Please…“ It’s barely a whisper now. And surely they could give him this. A last request. It’s not as though he’d survive it. So they’d get what they wanted. One Winchester turned to dust, just more ash and embers as the flames consumed everything. The whole world is red and light and dark and it just never, ever seems to stop burning.
If his legs weren’t already about to give out beneath him, then the canonball to the chest that hit him next certainly would have had him floored in a second. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Like something was punching it’s way through his chest. His heart trying to escape, maybe? But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the dying, solitary bird, fluttering pathetically on broken wings - trying to crawl away to die alone.
It was a stampede.
A raging torrent.
A churning, boiling storm of emotion, slamming into his insides - searing along nerves, lightning flashes of electricity… Literally bringing him back to life - like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster, just meat and flesh and bones and no life without that thrum of warmth, of love, the ferocity was almost too much and it was all Sam could do to turn his head slightly. Eyes widened at the sight, Eric striding through the flames, out of them. And over the roar and crackle, over the screams, over the guttural cries of the dying - Sam heard the smaller, more delicate sounds of a child… An infant. And he’d know that sound anywhere. Hanna.
And then he was hitting the dirt, the restraints gone, blood and emotion and sound just washing over him. All of that desperation suddenly washed away and Sam let go. The sob that choked out as he managed to take a breath was a punctuation mark of all the fear and pain he’d been living through.
Sam’s hands found their way across solid muscle, skating over Eric, checking by rote, on instinct to make sure there was no damage, carefully pressing shaking fingers to the small bundle nestled between them, and Sam was mumbling things in response, thank you’s spilling from his lips. Just grateful and thankful that they were here and they were okay. That they weren’t hurt. Thanking Eric for saving her. Thanking him for saving Sam. Thanking him for everything and nothing and all of it paled into insignificance because no words could ever express what he was feeling—
—feeling.
Because he could feel now. All of the emotions that had been lacking or absent. The horrible depths of nothing where Sam knew there could be so much. Passion and warmth and love…
…and rage.
“Eric, I love you. I love you both so much, but please, you have to take Hanna out of here. I have to find my brother! I need to find Dean…”
And the others. All of them.
“Please, love. Please take her and go!?”
They could have their reunion later. When people weren’t dying. Weren’t fighting for their lives. And Sam would immerse himself in the other. Just sink so deeply into that bond, into that connection that not even God himself would be able to tear it away from him.
Nodding tersely, Alex bit his bottom lip and in a tight voice said, “Yeah. Right. No light play. Gotcha.” Nodding again, but this time it was less tense and more relaxed as he saw Sam’s hand release from the knife. Then he settled himself in to listen to the short lecture that was given to him by the elder male.“I’ll be sure to only use my magic when necessary, or… when no one can see it… but it’s hard to hide when most vampires can tell when a witch is around… How’s to say everyone doesn’t already sense that I’m here?” He asked curiously, but he didn’t mean any harm by it. Sighing aloud, he propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Things were so much easier when all I had to worry about was what my next grade would be in Stats.”
“I’ll hold ya to that, Sam… but for now I don’t think I’ll be trying after anyone right now… Too many fresh wounds from my last relationship.” Even though it was years ago, it still hurt. He blamed himself for the loss of Daniel… but then again, he couldn’t hold on to that forever.
Sam just blinked then shook his head slightly, “Oh… N-no… That’s not what I meant at all. You don’t have to hide what you are Alex. Any of what you are. I’m just saying, with a trick like that one, people might jump to the wrong conclusions is all. Thinking you’re something you aren’t. And ‘witches’ don’t have quite the same negative connotations as ‘demons’ round these parts. I mean, c’mon, man… I’m a vampire. We’re hardly known for being the ‘cuddlier’ type of creature out there.”
Sam’s fingers tapped on the tabletop once more and he gave a small chuckle, “Well, some of them might be able to tell. I couldn’t. Not quite got the hang of this whole ‘being dead’ thing just yet. It’s only been… Uh… Two years. Apparently I need a couple of hundred before I even get the basics down pat. The others around here though - they’re a lot older than I am. Just a heads up.”
He did let his eyes fall back to the table surface for a moment, thinking about Alex’s words. And he knew where the guy was coming from. No matter how ‘recent’ the loss, those wounds stayed raw. They never healed entirely, and Sam was more than aware of that fact.
“Y-eah… You know, you never really get over someone. And the whole ‘moving on’ thing is just crap. But… You can learn to live with it. And you can have something… Not to replace what you lost. Just something… Different.”
“Ah, sorry, man. It’s none of my business. Uh, you wanna check out the bunk room? You’ll be in, sharing with a few others for now. Y’don’t get a cabin until you’ve been around a bit.”
Once upon a time, Eric Northman sat on this bed and fell in love with Sam Winchester. He would have set the whole world on fire and gleefully watched it burn to watch the smile split Sam’s face, to watch his eyes light up because Eric simply looked at him.
Once upon a time, Eric Northman delivered his child right here, on this bed, while falling in love with Sam Winchester.
Once upon a time, Eric actually cared.
There’s a clock ticking somewhere in the corner, like a time bomb waiting to go off. He smells sulfur, but he’s also sleeping so it could just be his imagination (does he even have one left?). There’s a baby sleeping on his chest—she wouldn’t stop crying and Eric had to force himself not to glamour her to stop because God damn, she’s a freaking baby, there can’t be anything wrong with her other than being hungry or tired, but laying down with her seemed to have done the trick. She was shivering against the warmth of his body, so he used his hands, heated them up and put them on her back underneath her tiny baby shirt. She went right to sleep.
Do you think she knows that Eric doesn’t really care about her?
Once upon a time, with the clock ticking slow and cool, with the breezes ruffling through the tall grass, with the way the trees sway, Eric still wants things to burn, but not for Sam, because of Sam. Because Sam turned him into this. Because Sam split him open and dumped out all his insides. Now Sam can’t get to them, because Eric erased them. He took fire to them and watched them burn, watched Sam cry over the charred pieces of his heart, of their love. Eric watches on as Sam cries. It’s not funny. Eric doesn’t remember what funny means. Eric does not remember what their love means.
Now it does not exist.
The air doesn’t clear, like an unbalanced silence after a siren is shut off. Something’s not right. Nothing is right, but something is more not right that just everything not being right. He tries to open his eyes but things are still dark. He can’t move, or maybe he can and he just hasn’t figure out how to. It’s hot, and the baby’s crying (or screaming) again but Eric doesn’t know why or how or what and there’s this pain, this physical pain trying to claw its way out of his chest underneath Hanna and it’s not the heat, it’s Sam. Sam is trying to claw his way out of Eric’s chest, or maybe into it. Something is wrong, very very wrong.
do not threaten me with the fire of your body my love
for i am a man borne of fire and shall die of fire
i eat fire, i bathe in fire, i swim in the deepest part of fire.
The flames are reaching out and grabbing at him, but his body slaps back at them. Eric eats fire. His body is fire. He was baptized in fire. Do not threaten me with fire, my love, for I am a man borne of fire.
“ERIC!? HANNA!? LET ME GO! I HAVE TO…”
As soon as the smell of smoke hit Sam’s nose, he tensed instantly, initially hoping that someone just had a campfire going or that Maggie was burning todays lunch over in the mess hall. But almost immediately following it were the sounds of screaming—
—{ horrendous guttural moans of the not dead, not undead - infected, swarming through the broken gates. Hideous shrieks of laughter as other things joined the fray, delighting in chaos and making to indulge in the abject fear of the otherwise peaceful inhabitants here. And the wails of those already caught up in the violence. Terror spreading so as to be thick on the air - tangible along with the smells of smoke and blood and viscera. The acridness of bile and intestines. The very human deaths that were happening. And it was supposed to be Sam’s job to save them. }
But his first thought was of his brother - scratched quickly, because Dean would be dealing with this. Would already be armed to the teeth. Would no doubt already be fighting tooth and nail, getting people away from danger and tackling it head on. And Sam would find him and fight with him - side by side… After…
Finding his daughter.
He’d left her with Eric. Much to his own chagrin. The thing without emotion, simply the form and the function of his lover. She should be safe enough for half an hour while Sam did some laundry, down at the back of the washroom at the other end of camp.
Half an hour which - right now - could easily be the end of Sam’s world.
Eric would be safe. He would get out. There was no doubt in his mind about that. But without a cause to care - what would happen to their daughter? Would she simply be left to her fate while the world burned? Sam knew all too well that while there was logical thought, there was also nothing that would ‘attach’ the two on any level other than the knowledge that Hanna was Eric’s as she was Sam’s. It would be a split second decision. To take her with, or leave her behind.
There were words in his ears now;
You can’t help them, Sam.
You’ll die if you go in there.
You’ll b u r n.
~and someone, in the midst of his panic, had managed to lace a silver chain around his neck. They had hands on his arms and were pulling him away. And he would burn if that’s what it took. Just to get in there and find them. Save them. And if he couldn’t, then he’d die with them.
“ERIC!? HANNA!?”
“Please! Let me go!”
The world was a swathe of red, tears streaming down his face. The ravaging fires swarming quickly over wooden cabins. Devouring, consuming everything. It was all happening again.
It was never going to stop happening.
And he could see his own cabin. His home. His life. Ablaze. Flames reaching high into the night like a spire. A church to bury his beloved. Both of them.
What has he done? Realistically speaking, what exactly has he done? Made everything better? Saved Sam’s life? Made himselfbetter?Yes, actually.
Eric smooths a hand over Sam’s forehead as he forces the blood into his mouth but… the gesture lacks warmth. It’s out of necessity. He needs Sam to be alive—pure, primal necessity. Sam is important, he knows this. He recognizes the situation as potentially bad because he’s not stupid, he’s not an infant, but there’s a distinct lack of affection for Sam thrumming through his veins. He’s not bad. He’s just… better. He’s better at hiding his sin in his bones and in his belly, but now everything’s an abstract concept. You can’t connect the dots anymore because now the dots are blood and the lines are all smeared.
Eric took a broken man and put him back together, but in the process broke himself.
He’s not broken, though. There isn’t anything to fix. He got rid of that.
Eric watches intently from his seat next to Sam’s body on the bed. Spilt blood is red. Sometimes it looks black. Thick and heavy, blood streaks and spatters like paint. It tastes like copper or iron, metallic and warm. It smells the same, rusting and wet, but in high doses, it can be sickeningly sweet and disturbing. The blood makes Eric’s hands feel gummy and warm. It makes his fingers stick together and he wants to place red handprints all over Sam’s body like tribal markings, like cave drawings. They’ll tell the story of the two wayward lovers who suddenly forgot how to love each other. It’ll be beautiful, or whatever kind of fucked up version of beautiful this world can create.
Sam wakes up, which is good, Eric’s supposes, on the scale of things that could potentially be bad and the things that are supposedly good. Sam waking up is good. He feels something hard and solid pushing against his ribcage and it’s probably Sam, probably their bond, but it’s only mildly uncomfortable. A physical presence like a heart beat that Eric can deal with as long as it means Sam is alive. He’s valuable. Eric might have had his judgement clouded when he’d turned Sam, clouded with emotions, but he was smart and turned a good progeny. Eric had never been frivolous with progenies—in 1200 years he only had two—so he supposed his judgement was sound.
“What have I done?”
“I made it better. You’re not dead, are you? You seem to be in good physical health. To be honest, what have I done? I saved your life.”
Eric rises from his seat and digs through a basket of clothes before pulling out a slightly damp towel. He uses it to wipe most of the blood off his hands before moving back to Sam again and cleaning him up, rubbing the rough terrycloth over his abs, where the angel blade had snicked him, over his pecks and across his forehead.
Yes, Eric made a good choice with this progeny, but this whole “emotions” thing was going to pose a bit of a problem, now wasn’t it?
He tosses the towel at Sam once he’s had enough of cleaning and moves to the baby kicking away in her make-shift crib. He picks her up and she looks happy that Eric has done so. Either way, she’s his, too, and he can do what he wants with her, and right now he wanted to hold her. She’s happy and lively and Eric studies her, feeling a smile crack on his own face. She’s funny, and Eric likes her. She can stay.
Sam, however, seems to be in distress. ”What?”
This is not something he has the patience to deal with.
It’s not like the doors have been slammed shut this time. It’s not that Eric is angry with him - he no longer has that capacity.
Anger, love, hate, joy, grief, happiness, sadness… It’s all the same thing at the end of the day, all lives in the same place and all feeds off the same passion - a fire that burns inside - flickering and fluctuating. Growing into a raging inferno with the blazing heat of love or lust, or colder flames of white hot rage. Their bond hasn’t been severed or muted in any way, it’s still there, but where it should be thrumming with warmth and emotion, it feels like static. Like some kind of fault in the wire. Just black space or white noise. Something empty and hollow.
And it’s strange. How the sudden absence of something can hurt. Can cause pain as surely and strongly as any weapon or blow. Something lost - like a life taken - something to mourn. To grieve. Perhaps harder because the very thing that was all encompassing of those lacking affections, was still here. Still present. A constant, consistent, permanent reminder.
Eyes follow the movements of the older vampire and Sam’s hands push away at the swipes of towel, the Winchester still trying to drag the last reserves of strength back into his body as the blood fought off the silver. Tried to flush it out and wash him clean of the vicious toxin. But all of that was an aside. Not important. Sam knew pain very well and if he needed to, he could step past those boundaries and keep on going till he dropped.
“This is not better! N o t h i n g about this is ‘better’. Don’t you get it!? I know! I know what it’s like to be like that and it’s easier, yes, but not better. Never that. You’re not even a fragment of yourself without—”
The words choked off as Eric reached into the crib, Sam thankful at least that Hanna wasn’t able to comprehend the change in her Father. Only knew that it was familiar hands and a familiar face, actions barren of emotion. Like some kind of arctic tundra - no life - just mile after mile of jagged rocks and ice plateaus.
He couldn’t give a damn about the state of his skin or the blood drying and turning sticky, something he might once have laughed at, grinning and smiling with his lover over the debauchery - now, it just felt like a stain. Something given to serve a purpose and nothing else. There was no warmth in the gesture. It was like the richness had been stolen, leaving only the sharp metallic taste, dull and weak in comparison. Tossing the towel to one side, Sam swung his legs over the end of the bed and managed two steps before the abject weakness in his system hit him like a hammer and his knees folded under him.
He did manage to hold back the choked sob, the try to quell the panic in his voice and just took a moment, hands splayed on the worn smooth floorboards to take a breath. To listen to the soft cooing of their daughter in the hands of the thing that looked like his love, but right now… Wasn’t. At least - not wholly.
Because he remembered… Oh so well… Just how easy it was. The burden of any kind of emotional consequences suddenly gone. Just form and function and nothing else. Actions because of some inbuilt recognition of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ - but no conscience to guide. Just faltering memories and ‘going through the motions’.
“Please…”
The word was almost a whisper. A plea - a prayer - to anyone or anything that might be listening to not let this happen. Not now. Not when they were so close… And with Hanna too. It seemed happiness was to remain a permanently fleeting thing. And this was what it was to love. This was the cost of giving your heart so completely to another. This was the risk. The gamble. The gambit. And it seemed Sam just wasn’t lucky when those bone dice rolled.
“Please.” Sam lifted his eyes to meet Eric’s. “Eric… Don’t do this. I’ve been there and it leads to nothing good. There’s only more hurt. And you might not feel it, but I do. Don’t you remember? We made a promise…”
“To love - forever.”
And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright
I’m just so tired to share my nights
I wanna cry and I wanna love
But all my tears have been used up
Chuckling, Alex shook his head, “She can’t be that bad, but then again this whole apocalypse thing does make people crazy… Extra helpings would be a nice extra, though.” He flashed a grin as well, before running his fingers over his hair and settling on the back of his neck. This was nice.Hearing Sam discuss how trigger happy the guys could get, Alex sighed and rested his face in the palm of his hand. “Well, luckily you were there or I would have been dead… and getting girls isn’t my main target.” He teased with small wink before toying with the collar of his shirt.
Seeing the sudden shift in movement, and then Sam just up and standing while holding his knife a pulse of fear ran through Alex. What if he wasn’t strong enough to stop the attack if Sam lunged at him? That was silly, he was a witch. He was programmed to know how to fight against his those who wished him harm, but he didn’t want to hurt Sam.
“I’m a.. witch…” He said, before all of this he would have been ashamed to say it. Admit it aloud. He would have had his head down and said it in a weak voice, but that was the old Alexander. He said these words with conviction. Eyes dead ahead, voice even and strong, playful smirk that always seemed to be there. His light colored eyes seemed to glow a bit with pride. “A full born, one hundred percent witch… Is that a problem, Sam?”
Sam’s eyes didn’t just settle on Alex. They shifted around the rest of the room, those flickering lights were often the sign of something approaching - and in the hunters experience they were usually the pre-requisite of something you probably didn’t want to arrive popping in for a little death and destruction. Though the wards around the camp were sound. Sam knew that his brother was meticulous in checking the perimeter, in making sure everything was in tact. He knew this because after Dean went around and checked everything, Sam went around and rechecked them. Not that he had any doubts - but better safe than sorry.
The suspicion of something else appearing was tempered though by the movement of the bowl and Sam saw the sudden tension in Alex. Not that he could blame the guy. The knife hadn’t been drawn to threaten Alex, but to defend them. And as the pieces slotted into place, the mans revelation not withstanding, Sam just gave a small nod and lowered his hand.
“Mh. No. Not a problem. But, here’s a quick heads up for you. Messing with the lights like that?” One hand waved vaguely upwards and Sam slowly retook his seat. “Is going to put a lot of people on edge pretty much instantly. In case you didn’t know - all the crazy angels out there, still trying to win this ‘war’ - they do that when they’re about to zap in. Or if they’re about to hurl some of their mojo at you and smite your ass. Demons too sometimes. So you better be looking for the nearest bag of salt or flask of holy water, okay?”
Finally tucking the knife into the back of his jeans, Sam’s hand settled on the table, fingers drumming slowly as he considered. “Born witch, huh?” He repeated, considering the amount of witches he’d encountered who’d sold their souls for power, or worked in covens, usually unknowingly, lead by a demon.
“Look, Alex… There are a… Lot… Of ‘people’ in this camp who aren’t one hndred percent ‘human’. And I guess, after all the shit that’s gone down out there? It makes sense that the ones with a few advantages over the masses are the ones who’ve made it this far. And the humans with enough skill or knowledge who know how to deal with people like that.”
“Just because we’re like a supernatural pick’n’mix, doesn’t mean everyone’s going to be completely accepting. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. But some, it will. So just… Be careful.”
Letting the subject drop, Sam just grinned a little, “No girls, huh? Well, there’s a few guys around here who’re not half bad once you get past the piss and vinegar and layers of bullshit. Not that I’ll be helping, unless you need a wingman, or my boyfriend would rip my head off. His name is Eric. Also the owner of a pair of fangs and my maker. You’ll see him around no doubt.”
