Episode Twenty-Two: When The War Comes

By : Tracer and BurstynOut

Part Two

“You know the drill. Get your hands behind your head,” Zack ordered, pressing the muzzle of his revolver into Dean’s neck. “And you,” he motioned to Sam who was still sprawled on the ground like a gazelle that’d been brought down by a lion, “get up nice and slow, and do exactly like big brother over here. Don’t think about trying anything funny. This place is crawling with people who’d just love an excuse to take a shot at you.”

The brothers met each other’s gaze just long enough to share an “oh, shit” expression before darting their eyes suspiciously to see if they could catch a glimpse of the alleged gunmen. The place looked pretty damn dead to them, and Zack could tell they didn’t believe him.

“What? Don’t tell me the boys of the mighty John Winchester have never heard of a glamour?”

“Sure we have, and as soon as we find Tinkerbell and the secret Smurf Village, we’ll believe they work,” Dean sniped as Sam rose slowly to stand beside him.

“Oh, that’s funny. I always figured you for a Lost Boy, Dean. Or should I call you Peter?”

“As long as he’s Wendy,” Dean retorted, jerking his head in Sam’s direction, eyes to the ground as the wheels in his head continued to turn.

Zack chuckled dryly. “All the stock you seem to place in sigils and amulets, and you don’t believe in the magics that make them work?” He gestured with his gun, and the boys started walking reluctantly ahead of him in the direction he indicated.

“Those are sacred religious artifacts. They’re consecrated,” Sam argued, feeding off Dean’s devil-may-care attitude. He was careful to keep one eye peeled lest he miss an indication that his brother had a plan other than annoying their captor into submission.

“Religion is just belief, be it in God or magic. ‘Ts all the same,” Zack dismissed, keeping the gun trained on them intently. “And don’t get any funny ideas about testing that little bit of theology, either. The entire south wall of this building is covered in windows. You can’t see ‘em because of the glamour, but every one has a gunman in it, just waiting for one of you to make a break for it.”

“All part of your plan, I’m sure,” Dean groused.

“Well, I’m nothing if not prepared,” Zack replied. “Which is why all the snipers have their orders. If one of you runs, they’re instructed to shoot the other. So which of you wants to make a break for it?”

Sam glanced to Dean, met his gaze, and knew they were royally screwed. No way in hell either of them would risk the other, whether they believed in glamours or not, and they were pretty sure the bastard knew it. It was a helluva setup. Never, ever shoulda followed up on those coordinates.

As they trudged closer to the facility, they realized just how huge it was. By the time they were within twenty-five yards they couldn’t see either end of the massive brick structure without turning their heads, and the closer they got, the more it looked like a penitentiary.

“I fought the law, and the law won,” Dean mumbled pessimistically under his breath.

Sam couldn’t help but fight to stifle a smirk. Dean had a soundtrack for every situation. He’d be willing to bet his brother quoted song lyrics during sex. Not that he’d know…

“Not that way,” Zack instructed, startling his captives just as they were about to head through the arched gate that led into the paved yard of the facility. He pointed simultaneously with his chin and the gun toward the side of the building. “Go around the side.”

“Why, you gonna tell us there’s invisible hell hounds in the yard and a giant doggie door with a Welcome mat that says, Sic’em Chopper?”

“No, smartass,” Zack growled, finally letting Dean get to him just a little, “but if you’re feeling like you wanna go American Gladiator on something, I could probably arrange it.” His lips flattened into a thin line of determination as he gestured more strongly around the side of the building.

Having no option but to obey, Dean and Sam rounded the sharp corner of the brick construction and followed the wall for several paces, Sam leading and Dean doing his best to stay between the gun and his brother. Walking in silence for a few strides more, they nearly didn’t see the underground entrance as they stumbled upon it. Both boys stopped abruptly, teetering on the edge of a concrete opening in the ground.

“Down the stairs,” Zack ordered. “And don’t worry, I got Pennyworth all chained up.”

Dean hesitated, straightening slightly, suddenly more confident. “Well good, then,” he stated, eyebrows arching comically, “because my brother’s kinda got a thing about clowns. Personally, I’m more worried about the rats…”

“Kid, you’re making this way harder than it has to be. Just shag ass down the hole before I throw ya down, okay?” Zack threatened, exasperated to the point that his voice rose into another key.

“Whatever, dude, if that’s what it takes to make you stop whining like a little girl. I’m game.”

They proceeded down the narrow staircase, single file, as they’d fit no other way. There were twenty stairs leading down the hole, and by the seventh one, it was already apparent that it was definitely not the sewer tunnel from It. If anything, it was worse. There was a stench of rot and death, and what light there was seemed muted as though the source was covered in grime or soot.

Navigating the absurdly narrow staircase would have been tricky with one hand latched firmly onto a railing. With both hands laced behind their heads and no railing to be found, the brothers waged a constant battle with gravity, and the footing became slicker the further they advanced, giving gravity the advantage.

Despite Dean’s delusions of superhero grandeur, the laws of Physics were the only rules the brothers had never managed to break.

When they were nearly to the bottom, Sam, his height a distinct disadvantage in the current situation, slipped and fell heavily against the stone wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Dean forgot about the gun at his back entirely as he lunged forward and snagged a fist in the back of Sam’s hoodie.

Unfortunately, it was a rather nice day, and the sweatshirt wasn’t zipped.

For what seemed like an eternity, they hovered like a rocket at the apex of its launch, caught in the limbo between ascension and descent, weightless with nowhere to go but down.

Dean’s chin wavered with exertion, and his thighs trembled against the drag of Sam’s top-heavy mass. As certain as Dean was becoming that they were going to be just a mangled pile of broken limbs and twisted body parts at the bottom of the staircase, it came as a great surprise to him when he was pulled backwards, and the entire balance of their tenuous equilibrium shifted. Dean felt himself totter back from the edge and dragged Sam along with him as they fell backward on top of their captor.

Dean grimaced in anticipation of the gunshot he expected to ring out, certain that their clumsiness would cause a misfire.

Instead, Zack…laughed. His throaty growl took on a fizzy tone, and the burly chest that Dean had collapsed onto began to quake.

“Oh lord, your daddy would have my hide if you boys got your brains bashed in falling down some stairs.”

Relieved, but still wired from the adrenaline rush, Dean pushed Sam away from him. “Dude, get off me. You weigh a friggin’ ton.” He jerked his shoulders roughly, straightening his jacket, which was still clenched tightly in one of Zack’s gnarled hands.

Dean turned and glared at Zack menacingly. “And if you stretched the leather, I’m so gonna kick your ass, ‘Pennyworth’ or not.”

The older hunter let go of the jacket quickly and smoothed it down in a placating motion before raising his hands submissively. “Let’s not be hasty, son. Just help an old man up, would ya?” He asked, holding out his hand.

Sam’s face contorted in disbelief as Dean reached out and actually helped the man to stand. “Dean, he just held us captive at gunpoint,” he protested, tugging at his brother’s shoulder to steer him back from the perceived threat.

Zack chuckled, tucking the weapon back into the waist of his pants. “Never even had the safety off,” he assured. “Sorry about the confusion. It was the only way I could think of to get you here, and most of these walls have ears as well as eyes,” Zack explained as they made their way to the bottom of the staircase. “I couldn’t risk disclosing more than coordinates.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Sorry, little brother, I guess I forgot to update you on some of the code words.”

“What? Pennyworth?” Sam asked skeptically. “What kind of codeword is that?”

Dean feigned an insulted expression. “Hey, I thought that one up, I’ll have you know. C’mon - Pennyworth - creepy-assed clown that lurks in sewer tunnels under the city? What better code for covert, underground operation?” Dean blew on the backs of his fingernails and brushed them over his jacket collar smugly. “I thought it was a pretty good tag, myself,” he explained with a self-satisfied grin.

With his collar flipped up and that cocky grin on his face, all he was missing was a thumbs-up and a smooth “Aaaaaayyyy,” and he could have passed for the Fonz.

“You would,” Sam grumbled. “And your choice didn’t have anything to do with trying to freak me out with a homicidal clown reference,” he smirked knowingly.

Dean shrugged. “Well, did it? Freak you out, I mean?”

Sam half nodded and half shrugged, unwilling to give Dean the satisfaction of getting under his skin, but knowing he was maybe freaked by it.

Just a little. Teeny. Tiny. Bit.

“Not as much as getting held hostage by a dead man,” Sam admitted, glancing at Zack accusingly, eyebrows raised, and straightening his posture as if he needed to look any taller to be intimidating.

Zack met his gaze, unblinking. “Rumors of my death…”

“Have been greatly exaggerated. Thank you very much, Mark Twain,” Sam finished, unimpressed.

Zack laughed. “You boys are definitely your daddy’s sons - forked tongues attached to sharp minds, damned lethal combination.” He turned, motioning for the boys to follow, and led them through a dark hallway, the walls of which were slick and broken up by far too many steel doors to be anything but a prison block.

Dean looked at the coating of green slime that he’d gotten on the back of his hand by brushing against one of the doors. “Guess we’re walking the green mile,” he observed with a grimace, wiping the hand on the back of Sam’s hoodie.

“Hey!”

“What? It was already trashed from almost falling down the stairs,” Dean argued. “Smooth move, by the way, giraffe boy.”

“Shut up, Stumpy.”

They passed one of the doors that just happened to be ajar, no pun intended, and looked in curiously. The room looked to be eight-foot by eight-foot. No bed of any kind was visible, and only a toilet and a sink fixed to the far wall indicated it was anything more than a supply closet.

“What were you saying again about this being a school?” Dean asked darkly. “I’ve seen jails with better accommodations than this, of course most of them were in girls-behind-bars prison flicks.”

Zack overheard as he continued to snake them through hallways that appeared to extend under the entire building. “Oh, Sam was right. This was a school – a very high-end military school. People who could afford to send their kids off here could afford a certain amount of secrecy as to what went on behind the fence. Not that most of those people gave a rat’s ass. By the time they got around to sending their kids here, the brats were so over-indulged that they were mostly beyond help. No surprise that a fairly disproportionate number of them committed suicide in the first six months. The dark taint of this place is what drew its current occupants in the first place.”

“And who would they be?” Sam inquired.

“First things first,” Zack replied, finding a door at the end of a slightly less dusty hallway and opening it with a click. “We can talk more in here.”

Sam and Dean both paused at the threshold, the term, “lamb to the slaughter,” on the tips of each one’s tongue.

“No way, dude,” Dean refused. “You first.”

“Of course,” Zack obliged and stepped ahead of them. The boys followed him and realized, to their collective relief, that the room was much bigger and better maintained than the one they’d peered into farther back and supposed it was some sort of guard’s station.

Zack sauntered over to a desk in the corner and sat atop it, one leg hiked up, foot dangling, and the other braced on the floor. “As far as I can tell, it’s safe to talk in here,” he said.

“So, talk,” both boys said simultaneously, staring back at each other in surprise.

“Start with why you aren’t dead,” Sam suggested, folding his arms across his chest defiantly.

“How do you know I’m not? There are some pretty powerful necromancers floating around these days.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh God, don’t get Sammy started on revenants. He still looks at me funny every time I write something in my journal.”

“Just checking to see which pen you’re using, Mr. Invisible Man.”

Zack chuckled again. “You two make me wish I had a brother,” he stated, pausing pensively. “Anyway, I’m sorry I had to convince everyone I was dead. It was just…” He looked at Sam apologetically. “That night you called me from Bobby’s and I said I had something to tell you…?”

“Yeah, the line went dead,” Sam acknowledged.

“Cult freaks tried to take me, in my own house no less. I just managed to get away, but I realized the only way to cover my tracks was to break off contact with everyone until I could get a solid lead on how to take the bastard out, once and for all.”

“The bastard Demon, you mean,” Dean surmised.

“Yeah. Your Demon. Friggin’ Haris.”

“Have you?” Sam asked. “Do you know how to kill it?”

“No,” Zack said, shaking his head sadly. “Not yet, but I think I’m close. This place,” he revealed, pointing to the ground upon which they were standing. “This is the heart of his establishment, his corporate office, so to speak. Only his officers and most trusted allies are allowed inside the gate.”

“There’s a gate?” Dean deadpanned, rubbing his shoulder after their earlier tumble down the hillside.

Sam ignored his brother flatly, absorbing Zack’s information skeptically. “So what are you doing here, then? You said they tried to kill you, and now you’re one of the few and the proud?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of it.” He tugged at a charm around his neck as though its power was obvious. “They only see what I want them to see.”

“Another glamour. Dude, you totally Obi-Waned ‘em,” Dean snickered, grasping the man’s stodgy implication.

Zack looked down, grinning and shaking his head in amusement. “I suppose, yes, that’s what you could call it. Where do you think they got a spell powerful enough to keep this place secret and protected?”

“That’s all fine and good for you, but what about us?” Sam asked bitterly. “You had us waltzing right across the grounds in broad daylight.”

“They already knew you were coming. I told ‘em you were looking to make a deal,” he disclosed with a smug grin.

“I don’t think I like the sound of that, Monty,” Dean interjected. “How ‘bout we keep the money, and you keep the jackass behind door number three?”

Zack sighed. “I know. I know I took a few liberties.”

“A few?!” Sam huffed. “You brought us right into enemy territory without any kind of recon to work with.”

“And that’s different from what we usually do, how?” Dean countered, looking at his brother from under his eyelashes as he kept his head ducked down, studiously toying with the knobs on his EMF detector.

“Look, I need you boys here, or I never would have done it. I’m so close to getting the answers I came looking for, but the tension is rising around here. Something is brewing, and I can’t do this alone. Something happens to me, and all of this has been for nothing.” He paused, letting his point sink in slowly. “Now, I’m sorry to drag you two into this, but I couldn’t get ahold of your daddy or anyone else I thought I could even remotely trust.”

“Nice to know we’re one notch above chopped liver,” Dean grumbled.

“What kind of deal?” Sam questioned, ignoring his brother’s snide remark and choosing to focus on the issue instead of their rank on the hunter’s food chain.

“Hmm?”

“What kind of deal did you tell ‘em we’re here to make?”

“That depends,” Zack said. “Do you still have that fake bullet I had your daddy leave you?”

****

Sam and Dean navigated yet another hallway, this time following behind Zack.

“Dude, I can’t believe he’s actually gonna take us to his leader,” Dean quipped nervously. This hallway was much cleaner, nearly pristine, and the stench of the cellar passages was several floors below them, judging by the number of stairs they’d had to climb to get there.

Sam and Dean were able to walk shoulder-to-shoulder in the larger space and did so, erecting a wall of Winchesters that would have seemed much more imposing if they weren’t already deep in enemy territory and way the hell out of their league.

Zack approached the door at the end, pushed a buzzer, and looked up, craning his neck awkwardly as the tiny camera that was mounted above the door zoomed in on his features for identification. A few seconds later, there was a buzz and an audible click as the door unlocked. Zack grasped the knob and opened it. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

Both boys ducked their gazes to the floor and entered. They’d been told that it was a matter of courtesy to enter the officer’s presence with their eyes diverted. He was, after all, Haris’ right hand man, according to Zack, and he’d worked hard to earn that position. Any show of disrespect was call for immediate termination in a non-PG-13 fashion.

They entered to find what could’ve been the corporate office of any high-powered CEO in the real word, not unlike Frank Taliean’s head been before the brothers Winchester had given him a guest spot on “Lifestyles of the Not So Rich and Famous.”

There was a massive mahogany desk arranged front-and-center, just inside the door, and beyond that, the walls seemed to stretch on forever, an entire presidential suite wearing an office mask. The signed Jackson Pollack on the far wall most definitely did not come from Office Max.

Their benefactor, as it were, was standing at a large window that overlooked the grounds and didn’t turn to acknowledge the entrance of his guests. Sam and Dean darted glances at each other without raising their heads, both getting the distinct impression that this was a really bad idea.

The leader seemed formidable even with his back turned to them, broad shouldered, in a tailored suit, with jet-black hair gleaming atop his head. His hands, nearly as large as Sam’s, were clasped behind his back, his shoulders squared-up and feet planted slightly apart in a balanced stance. It was a posture not unlike the one that movie Hitlers often assumed while addressing the Nazi Party.

Dean vowed silently that if the guy turned around and had a mustache and an armband, he and Sam were just going to jump out the window and take their chances against the laws of Physics again.

“Did you bring the bullet?” The man asked, his voice eerily chilled. Even if it had been freezing out, he couldn’t have fogged up the glass of the window, despite being only inches away from it.

“Yes,” Zack answered, motioning for the boys to remain silent.

“And you’re certain it is genuine?” The leader asked skeptically. “We had it on fairly good authority that the bullets had all been spent.”

“That was the intention, I believe, Sir,” Zack explained. “Elkins could be very deceptive. He kept one back. Even John Winchester didn’t know the bullet he’d left with his sons was one of Samuel Colt’s special rounds and not a decoy.”

The black-haired head bobbed rhythmically as a dry chuckle scraped from his throat. “I sometimes think we gave the old geezer far too little credit. I wish Luther and his clan hadn’t made such quick work of Elkins. He’d have made a fitting gift for the Master.”

“Not as great a gift as the bullet, though,” Zack suggested. He pressed Sam and Dean forward, closer to the desk, nodding to them reassuringly. “These boys have brought it, as I promised. Perhaps there can be a trade.”

The leader raised a hand, still gazing out the window, his other hand still resting in the small of his back, awaiting the return of the first. “You seek amnesty, do you not?” He asked. “A Get out of Demon Hunting Free Card? Do you really think you Winchesters can walk away from all of this? Even if the Master accepts the deal, do you really think you can ever have normal, knowing what you know?”

Dean kept his eyes locked on ground. It wasn’t a question he hadn’t asked himself a thousand times. Would any of them ever be free of this life? Take the hunter out of the hunt, but not the hunt from the hunter. It would be like changing the color of his eyes. Cheap contacts weren’t going to cut it.

Beside him, Sam cleared his throat, taking initiative in the wake of Dean’s silence. “We’d…we’d like to try, uh, Sir,” he ventured, shifting nervously.

The leader nodded, hands once again clasped behind him. “That’s admirable,” he granted. “Feeble, mind you, but admirable nonetheless.” There was a pause as he seemed to consider the offer. “Let me examine the bullet,” he said finally, stretching an arm behind him, palm flat.

Dean glanced at Zack questioningly, but their comrade nodded encouragement, and he reached deep into the pocket of his jeans. The bullet was never off of his person, always close, digging into this flesh to remind him that everyone in his life had let him down at least once. He preferred to forget, but remembering kept him from expecting more than he could fully believe John or Sam was ever going to be able to give. Ironically, though, it never really kept him from hoping.

Dean felt the cold steel in his fist, intricately carved and warm with his own body heat. Hesitantly, he twirled it in his fingers and reached forward to place it in the extended hand.

No sooner had the metal crossed the palm of the leader’s hand, then the fingers stretched into claws and wrapped around Dean’s wrist like the tines of a steel trap. He drew back reflexively but was held solidly, a cold tingle creeping up his arm.

“Dean!” Sam cried, reaching for his brother’s arm.

Slowly, as though he didn’t have a full-grown man fighting his hold at the end of his arm, the leader turned, and the room fell silent as glowing yellow eyes shone out of his smirking face.

Panic welled in the brothers as they realized the trap that had been sprung on them. Behind the two, a sharp click echoed in the stillness over the pounding of blood in their ears. Zack stepped around in front of them, grinning maniacally.

His eyes were oily black.

“Surprise,” Zack hissed, flashing a grin worthy of a Crest advertisement. “Your daddy would be soooo disappointed.”

He opened his mouth to continue his taunt, but fell ghostly white as his feet lifted from the floor. He rose through the air until his body nearly brushed the sweeping expanse of ceiling above them, his face slack with surprise and terror as he looked down at the Demon.

“What? What are you doing?” The traitor questioned frantically, voice trembling.

The Demon looked calmly from his floating child to the young man ensnared in his grasp. “Upgrading,” he hissed.

Suddenly, Zack screamed, his body going taut as though stretched from the inside, and his mouth spread open, a black cloud of demonic vomit issuing from him as his throat constricted in protest.

Dean began to struggle anew as the wraith-cloud swirled around them, descending rapidly toward the two. Sam, his concern for his brother overriding his own desire to escape, wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and pulled for all he was worth.

The effort was futile.

As Sam’s body quivered with the exertion of trying to pry his brother free, he felt Dean go tense in his grasp, trembling as though caught in an electrical field. When the Demon released his hold on Dean’s arm, almost lazily after several arduous minutes of resistance on the brothers’ part, Sam knew that Haris was not conceding but only relinquishing control to his child, a passing of the demonic torch, so to speak.

The body that fell lax into his arms was no hard-won prize however. It no longer belonged to his brother, his protector, his Dean. What Sam held in his arms was a demon.

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