Chapter 12.

“Give me the gun, John.” Hughes cut his eyes to Syria and Sam. “Nice and easy like, so my pet isn’t startled.”

Winchester reluctantly handed the gun over. Duran took it, stepped back and waved it towards the other hunter, motioning for him to back up against the wall. “Now you, Caleb. Front and center, where I can see you.”

Reaves held Dean’s gaze for a moment. “It’ll be okay,” he said softly, and waited for Dean to acknowledge he was alright, before he pushed himself to standing.

“You really shouldn’t make promises that you have no way of keeping,” the medium mocked. “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling him Santa really exists.”

The dark haired hunter merely glared at Duran, stoically taking his place at John’s side.

“Now, Syria, you can bring young Sam over to join his family. I’m sure he’ll want a ringside seat for this.”

Syria smiled, backing away, allowing Sam room to leave the bed. The teen was unsteady on his feet, barely managing to right himself against the mattress. He kept his arms folded tight across his abdomen, which still ached with each movement. His dark gaze was locked on his brother. The kid wavered like a sapling in the wind before he quickly sat back onto the bed, one hand coming up to his pounding head.

Duran sighed, impatiently, stuck the gun in Caleb’s face. “Help him.”

Reaves stepped over to the bed in three long strides, bent down to assist the teen.

“Do something,” Sam whispered, tightly, when the older man leaned in close to pull the boy’s arm over his shoulder.

“I’m trying,” Caleb hissed back, taking most of the teen’s weight, as he walked him over to his father.

Once there Reaves steadied Sam, keeping a hand at his elbow. The youngest Winchester was shaking like a leaf. The psychic was afraid if he let him go he’d be joining Dean on the floor.

Syria was free from her charge now. The men watched helplessly as she sauntered towards Dean.

“Now we shall get to the main show, enough of the opening act.” Duran held tightly to the gun, unsure if he’d have to shoot one of the hunters in order for the exchange to take place. “And in case you’re wondering who I’ll kill first…let’s say that I’ll start with the youngest and go from there.” He met John’s eyes. “And my aim is true, having been taught by the best our covenant has to offer.”

Dean kept his eyes on the brunette approaching him. He licked his dry lips as she dropped to her knees in front of him and crawled the rest of the way to his side. The blond hunter rolled his eyes at the woman’s showboating. Syria swung one leg over him like a saddle, pulling her skirt higher as she straddled his legs.

“Funny how the fantasy is always better than the real thing,” Dean quipped as the woman’s hands ran up his arms, her fingers tracing along his jaw as she ran one hand through his hair.

“You don’t like me anymore, Dean?” Her breath was hot against his ear as she leaned closer, lips caressing his cheek.

“I don’t like broccoli or the Yankees.” The twenty-year-old breathed. “You…rate right up there with oozing, puss-filled sores and fire demons.”

Her laugh caused a chill to climb up his spine, like a spider. “You know why you little boys like your cheap fantasies so much?”

Syria’s hands suddenly wrapped around the hilt of Echnon’s blade. She tightened her long fingers and leaned against it so she cold place her lips to the boy’s ear.

Dean cried out in pain. The rush of blood filled his ears, but did not block out Caleb and Sam’s voices as they called out his name. “That’s because real love is a bitch, my sweet.” The witch whispered, closing her eyes, feeling the thrum of electricity course from the cool iron to her warm fingers. She waited for Echnon’s magic to relieve her of her burden.

Caleb could feel Sam quake beneath his grip, his exhausted muscles responding to the adrenaline and fear for his brother. The dark haired hunter felt his own body shake and twitch with the overwhelming, all consuming need for action. A desire to do something, any damn thing to stop the bitch from hurting Dean any further.

But Duran had the gun aimed at Sam’s head, and the psychic knew he couldn’t chance a physical move or a telepathic one. Not yet.

He could only hope for once in his short life that the curse he’d been born with, would offer some kind of protection. Not for himself, because he wouldn’t ask for such a thing, wouldn’t admit what he was even to say his own life. Reaves wouldn’t give the other side that satisfaction. Years of denial and disassociation had worked for him. But if it saved Dean…

“Nothing is happening!” Syria’s voice held a hint of panic and it brought the medium’s gaze to her.

“What?”

The woman grasped the knife tighter, thrust it deeper into Dean’s gut, eliciting another cry of pain from the boy. “It isn’t working!”

The blond hunter wasn’t sure what Syria was shouting about. Every sound was a buzz now. A fiery agony had blossomed through his body, the heat of it consuming every inch of him like an inferno. He could feel the rush of blood through his veins and a pressure in his head, against his heart, as if something or someone was trying to force themselves through his skin, to penetrate his physical boundaries, to obliterate the fortress of his person.

He hurt. Like he’d never hurt before. And he couldn’t help calling out for help. For someone to make it all stop. Pride was abandoned, bravado momentarily forsaken. Mercy was sought.

John Winchester howled in anger as his eldest called out for him, then for his brother. “Sonofabitch!”

“Stop it! Just stop it now!” Kline called from his spot curled against the wall. Caleb took his frustration out on the groveling coward, his inability to spare the younger hunter spurring a barely controlled viciousness. With one thought, the psychic had the man by the throat. Mentally, his finger’s tightened on the thin, wrinkled neck until the old man’s eye’s widened marginally, bulged as his oxygen was cut off. A chocking sound escaped him and mixed with the strangled sound of Caleb’s name. Sam’s distraught voice calling for him again brought him completely out of Kline’s mind. The old man slumped forward, unconscious before his head bounced against the wood floor.

The sixteen-year-old was staring at him, and for a minute Caleb was angry the boy had stopped him from finishing off Kline. But then his gaze went to Dean and he understood.

Syria’s hands were no longer on the blade, but now grasped the barely conscious hunter’s bleeding hand in hers. The witch’s blazing eyes were on Reaves. “You! You did this!”

Duran glared at the psychic. “What’s going on?” His gaze darted back to Syria, who was pale and sweating now. Obviously controlling Scott Kline’s spirit was taking its toll. “Why didn’t the transferal take place?”

“Because, you idiot,” Syria hissed. “He marked him.”

Again the medium’s gaze swung from the witch to the dark haired hunter. “How?”

The witch jerked Dean’s hand, eliciting another low moan from the kid. “This is how! His blood. He used his blood.”

“No!” Hughes shook his head. “That’s not possible. There wasn’t enough time.”

Caleb felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth, feeling the pendulum start to swing. He held up his own red-smeared palm. “Demonic Passover…who knew?” He tilted his head towards the medium. "Wait. You knew. After all, you gave me the idea."

“Ughhhh!” Sryia roared, reaching for Dean’s knife that she had discarded to her side. “You arrogant bastard! You’ve ruined everything!” She screeched as her fingers tightened on the deadly weapon she had used to hold Sam hostage.

In one quick motion she detangled herself from Dean and was surging towards Caleb and the teen, the blade dangerously brandished in front of her.

“No!” Duran warned, knowing she would obscure his shot, take away the last leverage he had.

Caleb’s smile grew as the woman played right into his hands. He shoved Sam behind him and grabbed the witch’s wrist as the knife arched toward his chest. Reaves easily used her momentum and spun her around so that her back was pressed firmly against his muscular chest, his forearm locked across her graceful neck. The knife fell from the woman’s hand as the psychic felt bones give way beneath his crushing grip.

John took complete advantage of the distraction, plowing into Duran, wrestling to liberate his gun from the medium. They fought, feet entangling, sending both against the bureau, then crashing to the floor in a jumble of limbs, and a cacophony of grunts and swears.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, Syria,” Caleb hissed into the struggling woman’s hair as she writhed and fought against his hold. His eyes went to where John was fighting with Hughes, betting on Winchester’s skill to be victorious. “Now it’s payback time.”

Reaves closed his eyes, took a deep breath and entered the dark recesses of the woman’s mind. He could feel her pain, her fear and resolution that death was at hand. For a moment an empathetic urge demanded he pull back, but then he caught the lingering scent of blood. Dean’s blood.

It was smeared on her hands, across her top, and the purely human emotion was drowned by the lust for vengeance. The hunter took another breath, felt her tremble in his grasp, remembered how she had enjoyed watching as Duran hurt him. And he knew for certain that she had felt the same rapture as she had hurt Dean. The first was forgivable, the latter was not.

Revenge would be so sweet, but then… poetic justice even sweeter.

With a quick breath he released her. A hard shove had her sprawling to the floor, sliding close to the opened patio doors, where a summer breeze lifted her dark hair from her slight shoulders. As Syria looked up at the hunter standing over her, confusion filled her haunting eyes and Caleb was reminded that beauty could be used to hide hideous things. Wasn’t that what Duran had said of him so many years ago when he’d joked to Bobby that if he’d ever known demons were as vain as vampires and elves then he might have joined the mechanic on more hunts. Bobby had replied in kind with a vicious right cross, but perhaps, it was true.

“Caleb?” Sam’s voice rang out behind him and Reaves motioned towards Dean, who was starting to come around.

“Help your brother,” the hunter said quietly, his gaze never leaving Syria.

The witch made the mistake of looking at the teen and found herself in Caleb’s mental grasp once more. “I’m going to take a peek into Pandora’s box.”

John felt the tide turning in his favor, despite the tenacity with which Duran battled. The younger man was fit and well-trained, like most hunters, but he wasn’t a match for Winchester. Unfortunately, the medium had one thing in his advantage. Like Caleb had said, the man was king at playing fast and dirty. John had just managed to retrieve the gun, when Duran suddenly lunged away from him, his hand jutting forward with the speed of a striking snake.

The jolt of electricity seemingly came out of nowhere. The sizzling pain started in Winchester’s chest, spreading out and racing along every nerve in his body. John barely caught sight of the small weapon pressed against his ribs before his body jolted and shook, his two-handed grasp of the 9mm giving way to his jerking reflexes before he slumped to the floor and the darkness surrounded him.

Sam had mostly crawled the distance between he and his brother, blocking out his father’s fight and leaving Syria to Caleb as only one concern drove him. Getting to Dean.

Green eyes opened and stared up at him as he rested his trembling hand against the older boy’s sweat-covered face. “Dean?”

“Sammy?” The blond hunter lifted his head from the edge of the bed he was still propped up against. “What’s going…” His words were cut off as a loud zap filled the room, along with a sharp cry from their dad.

Sam’s hand fell to his brother’s shoulder, tightened there as he turned to seek out the new threat. His father was lying on the floor, shaking from a hand-held tazer hit. Duran was moving to retrieve the gun John had dropped.

“Sammy!” Dean’s demanding voice brought his eyes back to his brother, who was struggling to his knees.

“Dean…no!” The teen said, forcefully, reaching out to stop the other boy as his brother’s hands wrapped around the hilt of the knife still buried in his stomach. “Don’t!”

But Dean had already assessed the threat, realized Caleb was otherwise occupied, and decided as usual that he would be the hero. Before Sam could stop him, the twenty-year-old pulled Echnon’s blade out with a guttural growl and was on his feet stumbling towards Duran.

Caleb easily found the hidden recesses where Scott Kline’s spirit was tucked away, and without hesitation tore down all barricades that Syria had used to hold the dead man’s life force. Without the buffer, Scott’s presence exploded into the witch’s mind, crippling her with the intensity of the invasion. Her dark eyes widened as she cried out, and then a flash of something foreign sparked in her gaze. Caleb knew the battle had begun. A battle Syria would lose, if the hint of fury he’d picked up from Kline’s essence was any indication.

Reaves turned just as Sam shouted his brother’s name. Duran was standing over an unconscious John, Winchester’s 9mm in his hand. The psychic ignored Syria’s screaming, reached for his own gun, tucked uselessly in the back of his jeans the entire time. A taunting voice in the back of his mind told him he’d never draw it quickly enough, but just as his fingers closed around it, the medium’s body jerked.

Hughes went to his knees with a startled gasp, one hand leaving the gun reaching for the source of his agony.

Dean had thrown the knife from not three feet away, with more force than he had counted on. The blade had lodged high on Duran‘s back, almost squarely between his shoulder blades. As the spent, blond hunter sank to the floor, he felt his brother‘s presence behind him, and didn‘t resist when the younger boy wrapped an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright.

The medium jerked around to face them, his chiseled face contorted in anger and pain, his ice blue eyes alight with denial and disbelief. “YOU!” He howled.

“Don‘t…worry,” Dean bit out. “It won’t kill you…but it hurts like a bitch.”

The medium's arm shook as he raised John’s gun and pointed it at the young hunters. “Sorry, I can’t say the same thing for the bullets.” He ground out, between clenched teeth.

Dean braced himself, tried to shield Sam as much as he could in their completely open situation. The sharp retort of the gun tore through the room. He winced, expecting to feel the hot trail of fire rip into him, but the only sensation was Sam’s hand fisting tighter in the back of his shirt, the teen‘s warm breath against his neck.

Caleb hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even flinched. He’d aimed and fired, sending the bullet straight into the side of Duran’s skull. The medium was dead before he fell to the floor.

“Shit!” Dean swore, staring at the lifeless Hughes, now spread-eagle on the floor near their father’s prone form, a pool of blood quickly gathering around his head.

Another scream from Syria had them looking her way in time to see the witch stumble through the balcony door and take flight over the railing of the 10th story awning. “Holy fuck.” The twenty-year-old raked a hand through his hair, his gaze finding Caleb, who was still holding the gun he’d used to kill Duran, seemingly undisturbed that Syria had just committed suicide.

“Dean?” Sam’s shaky voice brought his attention back to his brother, who was now kneeling at his side.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean wrapped one arm around his stomach, which didn’t hurt half as bad as it should have, and tried to stand up to go to their father.

“Stay there,” Reaves ordered, finally snapping out of his trance. He stuffed the gun back in his jeans and moved to John’s side, his fingers going to the older man’s neck, as his gaze rested on Duran's empty stare. Caleb blinked, forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

The dark haired hunter swallowed hard when he registered the strong pulse beneath his sensitive digits, lifted his green eyes to the other boys. “He’s alive-just unconscious.”

Dean let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, felt more than heard his brother do the same. Caleb was in front of them now, tugging Dean’s arm away so he could check the knife wound.

“Dude, back off. I’m okay,” the blond hunter tried, but Reaves shook his head.

“Shut up, Deuce.”

Dean would have protested harder, but the unfamiliar look in the older man’s gaze and the completely foreign way the man’s hands shook as he reached out to lift his shirt, kept him quiet.

“Is he all right?” Sam’s soft, worry-filled voice had him sighing.

“Can’t you hear, Captain Oblivious? I’m good.”

Caleb looked up and met the teen’s dark gaze. “He is good." There was touch of wonder in the psychic's voice. "Duran wasn’t lying about that blade.”

Both boys looked down, amazed to find only a small, quickly fading red-line marring Dean’s skin. Reaves let go of his torn, bloody shirt. “Although I think a change of clothes is called for.”

“And a quick getaway,” Dean added as sirens could be heard in the distance.

Caleb looked over his shoulder, towards the French doors. “Guess Scott’s little acrobatic act drew a crowd.”

“Scott?” Sam asked, and Reaves nodded.

“I don’t think he appreciated being kidnapped and held for ransom.”

“Just like Mac’s not going to appreciate the media circus coming to town.”

Caleb glanced around the room. Kline was still out cold in the corner. John was starting to come around, but Hughes…well Hughes was sort of all over the place. “

"Jesus!" He rubbed a hand over his face. Every fucking thing was a mess, but they were all alive...and relatively in one piece. The dark haired hunter looked at the Winchesters. Dean was quickly regaining his color and strength. Sam was holding his own. They were both safe. That was the important part. Anything else, Caleb could handle. He nodded at them. "I know how to deal with this." The words rang with false confidence.

Which Dean easily picked up on. He snorted, and rolled his eyes. "You know how to deal with a dead body, an unconscious millionaire, a witch that took a header off of Mac's balcony, and a pissed off, juiced up John Winchester?"

"Not to mention you wasted one of the Brotherhood," Sam pointed out and twin sets of green eyes bored into him. "Not that he didn't deserve it."

Reaves sighed, but a faint smile tugged at his lips, a hint of the lone dimple appearing on his left cheek. "What can I say? It's a gift."

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